A    WHITE-PAPER    GARDEN 


"  CARRY    ME    TOO  " 


A  WHITE-PAPER  GARDEN 


BY 

SARA  ANDREW   SHAFER 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY," 
•'BEYOND  CHANCE  OF  CHANGE,"  ETC. 


WITH   FOUR   PLATES  IN  COLOR,  AND  OTHER 
ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM   PHOTOGRAPHS  BY 

FRANCES  AND  MARY  ALLEN 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

LONDON:  METHUEN  &  CO.  LTD. 
IQIO 


Published  June,  1910 


The  month-verses  appearing  in  this 
volume  were  first  published  in  "The 
Outlook,"  New  York,  1904,  and  are 
used  by  permission. 


TO 

EVERYONE 
WHO  EVER  GAVE   ME   A  FLOWER 


FOREWORD 

~"*HE  year  has  turned,  and  the  divine 
stirrings  which  herald  the  resurrection  of 
that  body  which,  in  our  blindness  and  our 
pride,  we  are  pleased  to  call  the  lower  creation 
have  begun.  It  will  not  be  long  before  there 
will  be  about  us  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth,  amid  which  the  clouds,  the  cold  and 
the  shadows  of  to-day  will  be  forgotten.  A 
part  of  the  coming  glories  will  be  brought  to  the 
dull  ken  of  man,  who  fancies  that  the  eternal 
forces  work  only  for  him,  but  a  far,  far  greater 
part  will  be  seen  only  by  the  eyes  of  the  count- 
less millions  whom  our  ignorance  and  our 
arrogance  declare  to  be  without  knowledge  or 
understanding.  Who  knows  ?  Is  it  true  that 
"the  soul  sleeps  in  the  stone,  dreams  in  the 
animal,  and  wakes  in  the  man "  ?  And  is 

vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FOREWORD  .  .  ™ 

APOLOGY  .  .  xv 

JANUARY  .  .  « 

FEBRUARY  .  .  J9 

MARCH  .  .  43 

APRIL     .  .  65 

MAY       '.  .  9i 

JUNE       .  .  .:  "3 

JULY       .  '43 

AUGUST  .  .  l67 

SEPTEMBER  .  .  *9S 

OCTOBER  .  2I9 

NOVEMBER  .  .  245 

DECEMBER  ....          a?1 


XI 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


"CARRY  ME  TOO"  (in  colour) 

A    WINTER    MORNING 

A   WINTER    POOL 

SUNSET 

THE   RIVER   . 

THE   MEADOW 

THE    ROSE    GARDEN    (in   Colour) 

BLOSSOM 

THE  ROSE  (in  colour)  , 

THE   TROUT    BROOK 

REFLECTIONS  .  . 

MAPLES 

THE   MEDITATIVE   WALK 

CHINA    ASTERS 

MORNING   GREY 

THE    HILL      .  . 

THE    RIVER  .  . 

GREY   TWILIGHT 

xiii 


Frontispiece 

FACING    PAGE 

3 

21 

45 
56 
67 

93 
98 


118 
128 

145 
1  60 
169 
172 
I78 
188 
192 


xiv         A   WHITE-PAPER    GARDEN 

FACING    PAGE 

GOING   TO    MEETING    (in  Colour)           .                 .  .197 

THE  NORTH  MEADOW  BROOK           .  .        204 

ASTERS  IN  THE  ORCHARD    .  2IO 

BROUGHTON'S  POND             .            .            .  .216 

THE  CHESTNUT  TREE          .           .            .  .221 

THE  BONFIRE           .            .            .             .  .226 

LATE  AFTERNOON    .            .        .  .            .  .        247 

THE  FOREST  POND  .                       .            .  .        256 

THE  PETERSHAM  WOODS     .           .            .  .264 

A  FROSTY  MORNING            .           .            .  .        273 


APOLOGY 

nr*HE  first  sunbeam  of  the  new  year  shone 
in  on  me  through  the  year's  first  garden, 
giving  me  a  foretaste  of  the  beauty  of  all  the 
gardens  through  which  all  the  sunbeams  of  the 
year  should  pass. 

In  the  night  there  had  been  a  sudden  lower- 
ing of  the  temperature.  There  had  also  been 
an  escape  of  steam  somewhere  in  the  labyrinth 
of  pipes  netted  through  a  great  caravanserai 
in  which  many  of  the  cliff-dwellers  of  these  un- 
happy and  unnatural  days  find  shelter.  Thus 
the  frost  found  a  chance  to  work  his  magic. 
Happily  I  do  not  care  for  what  are  known  as 
window  draperies,  and  I  do  care  for  the  light 
which  comes,  fresh  and  unstained,  with  the 
dawning  of  each  new  day,  and  so,  when  I 
opened  my  eyes  on  New  Year's  morning,  I 
b  xv 


XT!         A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

saw,  with  the  first  grateful  glance,  what  had 
been  prepared  for  me. 

With  a  breath  of  vapour,  and  on  a  pane  of 
glass,  the  frost  fairies  had  painted  scenes  that 
I  held  my  heart  to  look  at.     Mountain  ranges 
were  there,  with  cliffs  along  which  pointed  firs 
marched    in   valiant   phalanx.      Valleys   were 
there,  down  whose  slopes  rivers,  fringed  with 
willows  and  with  reeds,  flowed  to  vast  oceans. 
Spars  of   ships   at    sea    were   there ;   islands 
crowned   with   palms ;   ruins   of  old  temples ; 
galaxies  of  stars  and  bars  of  light  ineffable  ; 
fronds  of  ferns,  and  a  thousand  symbols  for 
thoughts  for  which  we  have  no  words.     All 
these  were  painted   there,  and   blending   the 
unheard  music  of  their  frozen  harmonies  with 
the  far-off  chimes  of  bells  calling  the  faithful 
to   prayer,  I  heard  the  voices  of  the  winter- 
spirits  whispering. 

"  We  are  of  the  most  ancient  guild  of  master 
craftsmen.  Since  Time  has  been  we  have 
spoken  to  men  as  we  speak  to  you.  Thou- 


APOLOGY  xyii 

sands  of  years  ago  we  told  our  story ;  thousands 
of  years  hence  we  shall  tell  it  again  in  these 
lines  which  were  fashioned  before  Eternity 
began.  We  change,  we  fade,  we  die,  in  a 
changing,  fading,  dying  world,  but  we  come 
again,  obedient,  each  tiniest  crystal,  to  the 
ultimate  Law." 

As  I  looked  at  the  frost  garden,  and  listened 
to  its  voices,  I  thought  of  gardens  I  had  known 
and  loved  before.  Some  of  them  are  with  the 
snows  of  yester  year,  some  are  so  far  away  that 
I  cannot  even  hope  to  see  them  with  the  eyes 
of  flesh  again.  A  great  wave  of  desolation 
came  over  me  as  I  thought  of  myself  shut  out 
from  all  the  things  I  cared  most  for,  shut  in 
by  all  the  things  I  most  abhorred  :  a  sparrow 
on  a  housetop,  with  not  even  a  sparrow's 
heritage  of  a  green  bough  to  cling  to. 

Balzac  had  once  such  a  desolation,  such  a 
longing,  and  this  is  how  he  overcame  it.  He 
made  the  roofs  of  Paris,  spread  out  before  his 
garret  window,  a  playground  for  his  imagina- 


XV111 


A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 


tion,  a  garden  for  his  thoughts.  There  were 
the  wet  slates  shining  in  the  grey  weather ; 
there  were  the  lights  at  night ;  there  were  the 
smoke-forests  ;  there  were  the  mosses,  parched 
by  sun,  freshened  by  rain;  there  were  the  fogs; 
there  were  the  skies,  the  stars  and  the  dawn. 

He  had  no  more  ;  had  not  I  as  much  ? 

The  "captive  of  an  idea"  I  arose,  my  eyes 
wide  with  a  great  resolve. 

I  too  would  have  a  garden.  My  body  might 
be  imprisoned  but  my  soul  should  be  free.  For 
what  was  my  fancy  given  if  it  be  not  to  over- 
ride circumstance?  Why  should  my  memory 
so  linger  over  every  leaf  and  flower,  every 
light  and  shade,  every  sound  and  movement 
of  the  beautiful  world  that  once  was  mine,  if 
out  of  its  hoard  I  might  not  fashion  a  garden  in 
which  my  thoughts  might  dwell  ?  Why  were 
my  brain-cells  stored  with  the  words  which 
those  who  have  gone  before  me  have  said 
about  the  green  world  which  they  loved,  if  I 
may  not  set  them  forth  where  I  can  touch  them 


APOLOGY  xix 

at  any  hour,  and  point  them  out  to  others,  if 
I  please  ?  Why,  if  I  may  not  have  sight  of 
garden  joys,  may  I  not  have  faith  that  some- 
where they  exist ;  hope  that  some  time  they 
may  be  mine  again,  and  love  that  shall  carry 
me  bravely  through  a  whole  year  of  imagined 
beauty  ? 

I  will  have  a  garden !  Reams  of  paper  shall 
be  my  acreage,  and  pen  and  ink  shall  be  my 
spade  and  trowel.  Never  a  blight  shall  fall 
on  my  flowers,  nor  shall  they  suffer  an  un- 
welcome rain,  or  an  untimely  frost.  It  shall 
be  here  to-day,  and  there  to-morrow :  an  old 
pleasaunce  which  I  remember,  in  one  hour,  and 
in  the  next,  a  new  realm  untrodden  by  the  foot 
of  man.  If  I  choose,  the  whole  landscape  shall 
be  my  garden,  or  it  may  be  an  orchard,  or  a 
field  of  clover,  of  bending  wheat.  If  I  like,  it 
shall  be  a  marsh,  hot  in  the  sunshine,  and  full 
of  strange  bog-growths,  or  it  shall  be  a  forest, 
vast  and  dim  and  inscrutable.  Perhaps  it  will 
narrow  down  to  the  shadow  cast  by  a  pot  of 


XX 


A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 


ferns  on  a  window  ledge,  or  to  the  fairy  graces 
of  a  saucerful  of  bluets.  The  garden  that 
might  serve  for  the  days  when  the  fair  maids 
of  February  walk  through  the  snows  ringing 
their  green  and  silver  bells  may  well  be  too 
small  to  content  me  when  roses  bloom.  But 
what  of  that  ? 

The  Indians  divided  their  year  into  moons, 
calling  each  by  a  word  full  of  meaning.  Moons 
will  divide  my  garden  also,  since  moons  reign 
when  dreams  are  abroad. 

There  are  fields  in  dreamland  which  I  may 
annex  without  the  fear  of  the  curse  which  pro- 
tects my  neighbour's  landmark.  There  are 
cloudy  hillsides  which  I  can  see  from  my 
window,  to  which  no  one  has  a  better  right 
than  I.  My  seeds  and  roots  shall  be  the 
things  I  remember ;  my  flowers  and  fruits 
the  words  which  others  have  spoken,  by  voice, 
or  pen,  or  brush.  Little  vistas  shall  open  into 
unsuspected  and  unrelated  regions,  and  there 
shall  be  deep  breathings  whose  coming  and 


APOLOGY  xxi 

going  I  can  neither  command  nor  control.  In 
the  paths  wherein  I  shall  walk,  fine  spirits,  who 
have  already  learned  the  secrets  of  peace,  shall 
walk  also.  In  the  orchards  I  shall  be  a  child 
again  ;  in  the  uplands  I  shall  spend  my  prime, 
and  in  the  shadowy  alleys  I  shall  find  what 
balm  there  may  be  for  sorrow.  There  again 
I  shall  meet  the  friends  whom  I  have  hailed  on 
my  journey.  There  again  I  shall  listen  to  dear 
voices  which  have  passed  on  into  silence. 
There  I  shall  sing,  unabashed,  bits  of  song 
that  may  come  to  me — there  I  shall  laugh  ; 
there  I  shall  weep.  Winter  and  summer,  fall 
and  spring,  I  will  make  a  part  of  each  day 
sacred  by  dwelling  apart  in  these  gardens 
which  I  may  not  touch  or  handle,  but  which 
are  mine  by  every  right  of  the  spirit,  and  in 
my  white-paper  garden  I  will  disclose  some- 
what of  what  all  gardens  should  be,  even  were 
they  not,  haply,  all  of  the  stuff  that  dreams  are 
made  of. 


"  By  a  garden  is  meant,  mystically,  a  place 
of  spiritual  repose,  stillness,  peace,  refreshment, 
delight."— JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN 

"  If  beauty,  absent  and  dreamed  of,  does 
not  affect  you  more  than  beauty  present,  you 
may  have  a  thousand  gifts,  but  not  that  of  im- 
agination."— VICTOR  COUSIN 


JANUARY 


The  blue  sky  bends  in  a  solemn  bow 

Over  a  world  of  stainless  snow. 

In  chill,  brown  lines,  the  hedges  creep 

Past  sheltered  farms  to  forests  deep- 

The  steel-blue  ice,  wind-swept  and  clear, 

Covers  the  breast  of  the  lonely  mere. 

In  cedar  thickets  blue  jays  scold, 

While  snow  birds  whirl  through  the  bitter  cold. 

A  tiny,  timid,  hasty  print 

On  white  drift  gives  of  hares  a  hint  ! 


I. 


A 
WHITE  -  PAPER    GARDEN 

JANUARY 

THE    SNOWY    MOON 

JANUARYS,  thank  God!  come  every 
year,  and  every  one  of  them  has  thirty-one 
days  which  are  of  a  shortness,  and  are  almost 
sure  to  be  of  a  snowiness  and  a  coldness 
which  distinguish  them  from  even  December 
days  or  from  those  that  belong  to  February. 
January  sunshine  brings  us  an  experience  that 
is  all  its  own,  and  never  else-time  may  such 
sunsets  be  seen. 

Taking  these  things  separately  or  together, 
it  is  at  once  obvious  that  January  is  a  most 
propitious  garden-month,  with  gifts  which  it 
were  both  sin  and  folly  to  ignore. 

"  Live  they  not  against  nature  that  in  the 
winter  ask  for  a  rose,  and  by  the  nourishment 
3 


4  A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

of  warm  waters,  and  the  fit  change  in  the  heat 
in  winter-time  cause  a  lily  or  a  spring  flower  to 
bloom?"  If  in  the  days  of  Seneca  this  were 
wisdom — why  not  in  ours?  January  will  give 
us  more  than  we  dare  ask,  in  a  hemlock  bough 
strung  with  little  shining  brown  cones,  and 
powdered  with  snow.  Why  should  we  care  for 
a  midwinter  rose  ?  A  poor  perverted  thing  it 
needs  must  be,  no  matter  how  long  its  stem, 
nor  how  thick  its  petals.  Born  in  a  stifling 
atmosphere,  shut  out  from  the  skies  and  the 
winds  by  a  roof  of  glass,  with  never  a  bee  to 
give  it  greeting,  what  can  it  know  of  rosehood  ? 
Better  by  far  a  brave  spray  of  barberries  holding 
their  colour  against  the  cold. 

In  the  north  I  would  have  my  garden,  and 
as  this  is  not  a  time  for  petty  things,  but  for 
big  ones  and  bold,  let  it  be  painted  into  the 
landscape  with  wide  washes  of  the  tints  that 
belong  to  the  season.  Tints,  not  colours,  save 
for  the  heavy  blackness  of  the  evergreens,  since 
winter  means  reserve,  and  withdrawal,  and 
grey  and  white  silences.  No  one  is  ever  in- 
timate with  Winter.  Even  the  children,  who 
pile  fortresses  of  his  snow,  and  riot  in  the  deep 
drifts  with  all  the  joyous  abandon  of  young 


JANUARY  5 

animals,  know  that  only  thus  far  can  they  go — 
and  that  beyond  the  line  which  lies  but  a  step 
farther  than  the  threshold  of  their  desire,  the 
hush  of  death  is  waiting. 

A  winter  garden  ought  to  begin  with 
rounded  purple  masses  of  woodlands,  skirting 
a  low  range  of  hills.  In  the  sunshine  of  a  mid- 
winter day  they  will  melt  and  lift,  like  faint 
mists,  giving  promise  of  ever- widening  horizons, 
and  will  offer  to  us  that  elusive  beckoning  on- 
ward which  is  the  best  of  gardening,  as  it  is  the 
best  of  life.  Through  wide  planes  of  air,  they 
will  darken  as  stormy  weather  approaches,  and 
by  their  white  effacement  they  will  announce 
the  coming  of  snow.  The  eyes  should  be  led 
thitherward  by  dark  lines  of  field-defining 
hedges — or  by  stone  walls — not  too  well  kept, 
which  guard  the  sacred  earth  in  which  the  new 
year's  bread  is  asleep  in  the  young  wheat. 
Chance  trees,  elms,  red  oaks,  wild  cherries, 
or  close-breasted  cedars  must  group  themselves 
about  in  the  unhusbanded  corners  of  fields  ; 
above  stone  piles,  and  along  the  brooks  that 
sing  under  the  ice.  Orderly  battalions  of 
cedars  must  march  along  the  roads  leading 
towards  the  village,  keeping  sentry  over  the 


6  A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

tentlike  stocks  which  bring  the  crows  cawing 
from  their  distant  pines. 

Of  all  the  birds  that  fly  I  love  the  crows 
most  dearly.  Their  slow  cries  mingled  with 
the  half-sleeping,  half-waking  dreams  of  dawn, 
and  their  strong  wings  measure  off  the  sky- 
gold  of  sunset  with  a  beauty  and  system  which 
gives  them  a  right  to  be  called  the  chief  of  our 
winter  birds.  Others  come  and  go — or  they 
are  too  small  or  too  few  to  impress  themselves 
upon  the  largeness  of  the  out-of-door  world 
but  the  crows  may  always  be  depended  upon 
to  give  the  landscape  the  sharp  accent  of  their 
black  wings,  and  the  note  of  mastery  in  their 
undaunted  voices. 

If  we  would  have  crows  always,  and  black- 
birds later  and  blue  jays  when  the  gay  spirit 
that  rules  them  pleases,  we  must  plant  pines. 
Even  in  an  estate  encompassing  a  castle  in  Spain 
there  could  never  be  pines  enough,  and  were 
I  the  owner  of  Aladdin's  lamp  I  would  endow 
whole  landscapes  with  the  glory  of  rows  and 
clusters  and  avenues  and  forests  of  these  royal 
trees.  Nothing  so  lends  distinction  to  country 
life  as  the  possession  of  pines.  A  splendid 
mansion  doubles  its  dignity  by  an  approach 


JANUARY  7 

guarded  by  these  lordly  conifers,  and  the 
simplest  farmhouse  loses  all  vulgarity  or  sor- 
didness  when  it  is  sheltered  by  them.  A  home 
so  adorned  and  comforted  reminds  one  of  a 
beautiful  woman  robed  in  costly  furs,  who 
does  not  defy  cold  by  her  wrappings,  because 
they  have  rendered  her  unconscious  that  cold 
exists,  and  who  diffuses  a  sense  of  warmth  and 
opulence  by  her  presence.  The  pioneer  of  the 
older  states  planted  these  trees  by  the  tens 
of  thousands,  and  more  than  one  American 
family  points  with  more  pride  to  the  ancestral 
pines  than  to  the  cross  which  was  the  guerdon- 
right  of  a  crusader  on  the  unused  coat-of-arms 
which  lies,  half-forgotten,  in  the  desk  in  the 
old  farmhouse  under  the  sighing  trees.  All 
pines  are  noble,  but  the  tree  of  which  Emerson 
said  unforgetable  things  was  assuredly  that 
of  which  the  masts  of  ships  are  made,  and  if 
the  fable  of  Daphne  has  in  it  that  saving  grace 
of  truth  which  lies  deep  in  the  heart  of  all  folk- 
tales, and  if  every  human  soul  has  its  counter- 
part in  the  soul  of  some  lifeful  green  thing, 
then  must  the  pure  and  austere  spirits  of  the 
men  and  women  who  have  made  our  republic 
look  out  on  us  from  between  the  pine  boughs 


8  A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

when  the  moonbeams  find  their  way  between 
the  singing  leaves,  and  throw  their  blue-black 
shadows  on  the  snow. 

An  old  pine  is  best  seen  when  it  is  grown 
about  by  younglings  of  many  stages  of  growth, 
from  the  feathery  whorls  of  the  babies  in  their 
first  summer  to  the  young  giants  rejoicing  in 
the  strength  of  their  youth.  The  pinetum 
ought  not  to  be  a  thing  of  to-day  nor  of  to- 
morrow, but  of  always.  Deep  —  oh  !  deep 
within  the  human  heart  lies  a  longing  for 
permanence.  Soul  calls  to  soul  for  pause,  and 
as  we  hurry  through  the  little  day  that  lies 
between  the  eternities,  with  what  passionate 
desire  do  we  cry  out  to  those  who  have  gone 
on  into  whatever  lies  before ;  and  with  what 
piteous  futility  do  we  try  to  be  remembered, 
if  only  by  a  single  kindly  thought,  by  those 
who  are  to  follow  us!  We  cannot  stay — 
that  we  know  full  well — but  some  of  the 
things  it  pleases  us  to  call  our  own,  may  live 
a  little  longer  than  ourselves,  and  so,  young 
and  old  together,  the  pines  should  grow.  The 
little  ones  are  to  be  loved  and  nourished  as 
one  loves  a  young  child,  but  the  old  ones 
are  to  be  cared  for  and  honoured  as  one  cares 


JANUARY  9 

for  the  beautiful  old  people  whom  the  aged 
pines  resemble.  Buffeted  by  winds,  pruned 
by  storm,  scarred  by  lightnings,  it  may  be, 
or  worn  by  neglect  or  cruelty,  how  full  of 
meaning  the  pines  become !  No  tree,  unless 
it  may  be  an  oak,  becomes  as  human  as  does 
a  pine  which  has  lived  for  generations  in  the 
intimate  companionship  of  man.  When  the 
trunks  have  grown  grey  and  resinous,  and 
the  boughs  are  mute  witnesses  to  the  struggles 
of  the  soul  of  the  tree,  they  take  on  the  same 
beauty  which  shines  in  the  faces  of  men  and 
women  who  have  grown  old  in  the  quest  of 
high  ideals,  and  in  the  service  of  noble  en- 
deavours. They  know  so  much,  the  ancient 
trees,  whose  breath  is  for  the  healing  of  the 
nations,  that  when  the  wind,  who  is  the  oldest 
of  the  master  musicians,  begins  his  hymnings 
among  the  dark  leafage,  there  is  no  mood  of 
the  soul  which  may  not  find  therein  an  inter- 
pretative melody,  and  no  sorrow  of  the  heart 
to  which  they  refuse  to  bring  a  message  of 
peace. 

Against  a  stockade  of  pines  it  were  well 
to  plant  in,  irregularly,  other  cone-bearers — 
spruce  firs,  cedars,  arbor  vita,  hemlocks, 


10          A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

junipers.  The  blessed  conifers!  Through 
how  many  ages  they  have  striven  to  adapt 
themselves  to  their  environment !  How  ten- 
derly they  hold  their  soft  burden  of  snow ! 
How  cheerfully  they  shelter  the  birds  from 
the  storms !  If  you  chance  to  see  the  delicate 
embroideries  the  feet  of  a  covey  of  partridges 
print  upon  the  white  drifts,  follow  it,  and  it 
will  be  almost  sure  to  lead  you  to  a  thicket 
of  hemlocks.  There  you  will  find  also,  un- 
certain, shy,  nut-hatches  and  juncoes — com- 
pact, cold-defying  little  scraps  of  life,  whose 
tiny  "  cheep "  or  crisp  interrogatory  call  to 
their  fellows  is  all  the  conversation  the  busy 
things  have  time  to  toss  to  and  fro  in  the 
frosty  air,  so  earnest  is  the  warfare  they  wage 
against  the  eggs  and  larvae  hidden  under  the 
bark.  What  an  evil  it  would  be  if  they  would 
decide  to  become  migratory  birds,  or  take  it 
into  their  heads  to  wish  to  know  what  a  palm- 
tree  looks  like!  The  jays,  those  gay,  blue- 
mailed  freebooters,  haunt  the  evergreens,  and 
bid  defiance  to  the  cold  in  harsh  cries  that  are 
of  a  courage  so  high  as  to  put  a  bit  of  their 
bravery  into  the  faintest  heart.  Once  in  a 
way  a  flock  of  ruby-crested  knights  may  search 


JANUARY  1 1 

among  the  spruce  buds  for  their  dinner,  and 
it  may  be  a  pine's  good  fortune  to  become 
host  to  an  owl  or  two,  whose  wide,  soft  flight 
through  the  wintry  dusk  will  be  a  thing  to 
remember. 

Near  the  evergreens  I  would  plant  as  many 
birches  as  I  could  find  foothold  for — white, 
grey,  brown,  shining,  clustering,  growing 
singly.  How  the  trunks  take  for  themselves 
the  tints  of  the  snow,  the  earth  and  the  rocks ! 
How  the  branches  symbolise  the  inconstant 
winds  with  the  thoughtful  movement  of  their 
delicate  traceries.  No  other  tree  gives  quite 
the  idea  of  purity  that  belongs  to  a  white  birch. 
If  I  were  a  painter  and  wished  to  paint  the  per- 
fect flower  of  womanhood  in  Our  Lady's  face,  I 
would  place  her  in  the  shadow  of  white  birches. 
Their  slender  swaying  branches  would  shield 
the  head  of  the  little  Child  upon  her  knee, 
and  He  would  try  to  catch  the  flickering  beams 
of  the  sun  which  fell  between  them  with  the 
hands  that  were  to  be  held  out  in  love  to 
all  the  world. 

A  beech  shall  grow  in  one  corner  of  my 
garden,  the  corner  I  shall  call  my  sound  garden. 
Why  not  ?  The  ear  has  as  good  a  right  to 


12          A  WHITE-PAPER  GARDEN 

be  thought  of  as  have  those  pampered  members 
of  the  body — the  eyes  and  the  nose.  A  per- 
fectly trained  ear  knows  by  the  sound  of  the 
wind  in  the  branches  of  the  tree  under  which 
it  is  passing  what  sort  of  tree  it  is.  Harsh, 
some  of  these  sounds  will  be  ;  delicately  vibrant 
others  ;  mournful  others,  and  cheery  yet  others. 
There  are  oaks  which  are  types  of  village 
gossips,  so  full  is  their  persistent  foliage  of 
whisperings  and  insinuations.  There  are 
beeches  which  rustle  through  the  winter  with 
the  silken  frou-frou  of  great  court  ladies,  and 
there  are  dry,  sarcastic,  unfallen  leafings  which 
hurt  like  the  smile  of  a  cynic.  In  some 
strong-caned  bushes  one  hears  the  voices  of 
the  builders  of  great  commonwealths,  and  in 
the  creakings  of  certain  assertive  growths  the 
materialism  of  this  age  has  long  been  fore- 
boded. The  catalpas  rattle  their  long  cas- 
tanets ;  the  locusts  clash  their  pods  in  unison 
with  the  beating  of  the  invisible  drums  for 
which  the  balls  of  the  sycamores  are  for  ever 
ready.  Through  long  grasses  and  sedges 
poets  and  musicians  sing  to  us,  and  in  the 
contented  rustle  of  the  corn  the  great  dear, 
commonplace,  indispensable  common  people 


JANUARY  13 

tell  of  their  joys  and  sorrows,  and  speak  with- 
out boasting  of  humble  duties  faithfully  per- 
formed. Briars  and  brambles  send  messages 
by  a  code  far  older  than  Morse's,  and  in  the 
mighty  race  of  the  cone  bearers,  fugues  and 
chorales,  concertos  and  symphonies  are  for  ever 
sounding,  while  to  the  Spirit  of  Winter  the 
whole  vast  orchestra  ministers. 

For  January,  as  for  all  the  months  of  the 
year,  I  should  like  to  plant  a  seed  garden.  It 
would  be  hedged  in  by  a  thicket  of  black- 
berries, over  whose  strong  lattices  the  Virgin's 
bower  would  weave  a  cloudy  thatch.  Chick- 
adees always  know  where  to  find  the  feathery 
grey  seed  clusters,  and  as  I  should  listen  to 
their  chatter  over  their  breakfast  I  should  look 
— always  in  vain — among  the  smoky  puffs  of 
seeding  for  a  single  spray  which  lacked  one 
line  of  that  grace  which  is  the  birthright  of 
the  clematis.  Cat  -  briars  would  climb  the 
thorn-trees  which  would  grow  on  the  outer 
boundaries  of  the  plot,  since  no  berries  can 
be  handsomer  by  contrast  with  the  scarlet 
haws  than  are  the  heavy  blue-black  clusters 
of  their  fruits.  I  may  not  call  the  bitter- 
sweet a  weed,  yet  it  shares  with  weeds  the 


i4          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

care-free  joys  of  sauntering  along  the  high- 
ways as  nonchalantly  as  any  gypsy,  and 
reddens  its  cheek  against  the  wind  as  cheer- 
fully as  any  vagabond  who  ever  deserted  a 
humdrum  rooftree  for  the  open  road.  Some- 
where there  must  be  elderberries,  frozen  but 
sweet,  and  frost  grapes,  and  there  must  be 
plenty  of  dog  roses,  and  some  spindle-trees. 
I  like  this  last,  pretty,  homespun  name  almost 
as  well  as  I  like  their  pretty  tricorned  fruit- 
cups.  The  Indians  called  it  wahoo,  a  shivery, 
owl-like  sound  that  goes  well  with  the  frosty 
air.  There  must  be  sumachs  somewhere  in 
this  goodly  fellowship  of  light-o'-hearts,  and 
a  spice  bush  must  offer  its  aromatic  twigs  to 
the  nibbler  who  alone  is  the  true  out-of-door 
man;  and  above  all  coral -berried  dogwoods 
must  find  place  here,  where  so  many  friendless 
folk  are  merry  and  helpful  together. 

Those  for  a  background,  and  against  them 
I  would  plant  in  all  of  the  bescorned  sisterhood 
of  weeds.  All  the  long  summer  they  were 
quietly  and  patiently  gathering  strength  :  all 
the  long  autumn  they  were  making  the  most 
of  rain  and  sunshine  and  sweet  earth  foods, 
and  now  that  the  starving  time  has  come  to 


JANUARY  15 

the   little   birds,    who   have    no    barns,   these 
granaries  are  open  to  a  horde  of  pensioners. 
Every  puff  of  wind  shakes  down  the  flat  seeds 
of  the   umbels,   and    every   hour    the   brown 
weights  that  act  as  rudders  to  the  parachutes 
of  the  great  family  of  the  composites  grow 
sweeter  and  sweeter.      Thistles  stand  out  in 
angles  that  only  an  artist  of  old  Japan  could 
understand.      Queen  Anne's  lace  throws  sha- 
dows which  no  one  but  Bonvin  could  interpret. 
Asters,  goldenrod,  Jor-pye-reed,  grasses,  sedges, 
yarrow     mallows,     and     even    jimpson     and 
plantain,   mullein  and  burdock  and   pig-weed 
have  a  value  now.      Men  never  plant  these 
things.     They   even   cut   down    those    which 
have  planted  themselves,  and  pride  themselves 
upon  the  performance  of  an  act  of  civic  virtue 
when  the  weed  pile  vanishes  in  a  flash  of  fire  . 
and  a  puff  of  smoke.     It  may  be  that  they  are 
right,  and  perhaps  I  would  do  it  myself  if  I 
had  the  next  year's  grains  to  look  after ;  but 
here,  in  this  spot  dedicated  to  St  Francis  of 
Assisi,  the  weeds  shall  stand  forth  in  all  the 
beauty  of  loving  service,  offering  their  bounty  to 
the  birds  in  a  right  true  brotherliness  good  to 
see  and  good  to  share. 


1 6          A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

There  is  but  one  flower  for  the  Garden  of 
the  Month  of  the  Cold  Moon,  and  that  is  the 
Christmas  rose,  or  hellebore.  In  seedsmen's 
lists  it  is  mainly  conspicuous  by  its  absence, 
and  it  really  belongs  only  in  gardens  where 
Tradition  loves  to  gather  her  treasures  about 
her.  Protected  by  the  leathery  curtains  of  its 
strong  leaves,  the  pink  buds  begin  to  show 
themselves  in  November.  Persisting  through 
the  most  discouraging  frosts  and  rains,  the 
blossoms  unfold  about  Yuletide.  White,  as 
becomes  a  snow-flower ;  with  a  heart  of  pale 
gold  stamens,  and  a  flush  as  of  dawn,  the 
flowers  are  as  beautiful  as  if  May  winds  had 
blown  their  petals  apart.  True  children  of 
the  cold,  they  must  be  left  in  the  open,  since 
they  pine  and  blacken  in  captive  air. 

The  whole  garden  is  incomplete  unless  there 
be  snow — the  soft,  light  snow,  the  swarming 
white  bees!  everywhere,  and  bends  every  bough 
and  covers  everything  with  its  pure  mantle. 
Then  when  the  sun  shines  as  it  loves  to  shine, 
when  the  cold  has  freed  the  air  from  dampness, 
when  the  frost  flowers  lie  light  and  sparkling, 
when  blue  and  mournful  shadows  are  cast  by 
every  grass  blade,  as  well  as  by  every  tree  bole, 


JANUARY  17 

then  is  there  a  garden  so  spiritual  that  our  eyes 
are  unworthy  to  behold  it,  and  our  souls  stand 
abashed  before  such  a  revelation  of  holiness. 
There  is  one  supreme  hour  in  the  snow 
world,  and  that  is  when  twilight  settles  down, 
chill,  still.  Trees  are  etherealised,  distances 
vanish.  One  by*  one  the  colours  die  out  of  the 
west :  one  by  one  in  the  far,  cold  sky  the  stars 
come  out,  each  attentive  to  "  God's  calling  the 
bede-roll  of  the  little  stars,  and  each  answering, 
'  Here  am  I  !  '  What  majesty,  what  solem- 
nity, what  awful  beauty,  in  these  glories  of 
the  most  ancient  of  all  gardens !  As  they 
deepen  and  brighten  and  grow,  and  the  cold 
strengthens,  perhaps  the  air  will  be  fanned  for 
a  moment  by  the  wide  wing  of  a  snowy  owl ; 
perhaps  the  white  burden  of  snow  will  shiver 
down  from  some  evergreen  bough  on  which  a 
restless  jay  has  found  shelter ;  perhaps  there 
will  be  a  fairy  tinkling  of 

"  Icicles 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  moon." 

So  many  things  may  happen  in  a  January 
garden ! 


FEBRUARY 


The  laggard  sun,  on  frosty  morn 
Throws  level  beams  through  stubble  corn. 
Against  the  sunset,  naked  trees 
Weave  magic  bredes  and  traceries. 
From  woodman's  axe  white  splinters  bound  ; 
The  flicker's  cheery  tappings  sound  ; 
Ice  thaws,  and  in  the  quickening  flood 
Are  vague,  fond  hopes  of  leaf  and  bud  ; 
When  lo  !  like  fleck  of  living  sky, 
Full-songed,  a  blue  bird  sweet  flits  by  ! 


A  WINTER  POOL 


FEBRUARY 

THE    SNOWY    MOON 

A  LTHOUGH  it  is  February,  I  would  not 
•**•  leave  town  if  I  could.  It  is  the  one 
month  in  which  the  most  enthusiastic  gardener 
is  as  well  off  here  as  elsewhere,  and  the 
friendly  streets  and  sheltering  walls  are  no 
bad  substitute  for  melting  snowfields  and 
sudden,  revolutionary  conditions  of  the  mer- 
cury, which,  one  hour  giving  a  hint  of  spring, 
in  the  next  bids  us  think  of  the  Glacial  Period 
— and  our  steps.  February  is  certainly  the  ugly 
duckling  of  the  year's  brood,  and  nobody  cares 
much  for  his  company.  Everybody  gives  him 
a  peck  and  an  ill  word,  and  everybody  grudges 
him  even  the  eight-and-twenty  days  given  him 
by  the  calendar  men,  and  considers  himself 
insulted  when 

"  Leap  year  makes  it  twenty-nine." 

It  is  a  time  for  books  and  for  plans.     Books 
may  be  read  anywhere,  our  plans  may  be  made 

21 


22          A  WHITE-PAPER  GARDEN 

as  satisfactorily  in  walled  cities  as  in  sodden 
orchards  or  on  spongy  lawns — better,  perhaps, 
because  there  we  miss  the  discouragement  of 
actual  contact  with  the  unlovely  disintegrations 
that  are  all  too  evident  in  St  Valentine's 
weather !  Perhaps  it  was  for  plan-making 
"that  Februarys  are  made,  after  all !  They 
are  near  enough  to  the  beginning  of  things  to 
encourage  a  free  outlook,  and  not  too  far  from 
other  things  to  let  us  forget  the  failures  and 
successes,  the  disappointments  and  achieve- 
ments of  the  past.  A  gardener  is,  as  Alfred 
Austin  reminds  us,  a  true  Dogberry,  "  a  man 
that  hath  had  losses."  He  is  also  one  who  has 
known  "the  purest  of  human  pleasures,"  and 
so  he  stands  in  the  waxing  strength  of  the 
February  sunlight,  remembering  the  things  he 
promised  himself  not  to  forget,  but  which  he 
will  forget  when  he  sees  the  first  daffodil,  and 
it  is  already  too  late  to  say,  "  This  year  thus 
and  so  shall  be  done." 

I  write  my  name  large  in  the  list  of  those 
who  most  gratefully  acknowledge  their  debt  to 

writers  of  books.     I No  !  I  renounce  the 

difficult  joy  it  would  be  to  try  to  say  what  I 
owe  to  the  printed  page,  and  I  hasten  on  to 


FEBRUARY  23 

say  that  in  February  there  is  but  one  kind  of 
reading  that  wholly  delights   me,  and  that  is 
the  reading  of  catalogues  :  plant  and  seed,  and 
fruit  and  bulb,  catalogues.     Herbals,  botanies, 
manuals — garden-books  in  general — these  are 
for  all  the  year.     In  this  month  I  care  only  for 
the   lists   of  things   men   who   deal    in  living 
plants  have  to  sell.     Because  my  name  is  found 
only  in  the  most  modest  corner  of  their  order- 
book — since    air-gardening    is    not    a    costly 
pursuit,   and   all    I   ever  buy   is  an  occasional 
packet  of  seeds  for  some  friend  who  owns  a 
leasehold  of  more  tangible  soil  than  mine — I 
am  obliged  to  send  shamefaced  postcards,  or 
deceitful  notes  enclosing  stamps,  to    the  men 
whose  advertisements  are  the  crowning  delight 
of  the  monthly  magazines.     I  cannot  buy  their 
wares,  I  know,  but,  as  it  is  better  to  give  than 
to  receive,   it   is  only  a  kindness  to  them  to 
enable   them  to   place   at   least   one   of  their 
pamphlets  where  it  will  do  the  most  good — to 
the  recipient  if  not  to  the  sender.     Moreover, 
it  would  not  be  polite  to  refuse  a  courtesy,  and 
they   beg  so  prettily  for  our  names  and  ad- 
dresses that  it  would  be  a  rudeness  to  refuse 
them. 


24          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

In  a  few  days  I  begin  to  watch  for  the  post- 
man, and  never  watch  I   in  vain.     The  kind 
growers  make  all  haste  to  disseminate  pleasures, 
and  in  a  trice  my  desk  is  covered  with  the  most 
fascinating  of  all  forms  of  literature.     Then  I 
shut  the  door,  and  invite  my  soul  to  a  lordly 
feast.     It  is  nothing  to  me  that  the  skies  are 
heavy  and   grey.      I    do  not   care  if  the  fog 
steals  up  from  the  river  and,  with  white,  bale- 
ful fingers,  presses  against  the   pane.     I  take 
no    thought    of    Candlemas    shadows    which 
others  fear.     I  am  at  the  gates  of  a  paradise 
from  which  no  angel,  flaming  sworded,  bars,  but 
which  all  may  enter  if  they  will  but  have  a  key. 
Tables  and  chairs  are  soon  over-littered  with 
the  charming  sheets  which  come  from  every- 
where, and  by  every  post.     Of  late  there  has 
crept   into  these  a  habit  of  illustrating  their 
text  by  photographic  reproductions  of  actual 
flowers,  a  practice  I  cannot  too  rigidly  contemn. 
If  the  florist  must  go  into  court,  and  hold  up 
his  right  hand,  and  solemnly  swear  that  thus 
and  not  otherwise  grew  his   campanulas  and 
his  foxgloves,  where  are  we  to  look  for  the  old 
delight  that  lay  in  the  woodcuts  of  asters  that 
were  as  big  as  chrysanthemums,  and  chrysan- 


FEBRUARY  25 

themums  that  had  the  diameter  of  a  dinner- 
plate  ?  Compare  a  list  of  to-day  with  one  of 
even  half-a-dozen  years  ago — can  there  be  such 
deterioration  in  plants  ?  And  is  there  to  be 
no  more  that  keen  stimulant  given  to  one's 
imagination  which  the  old  catalogues  offer  ? 
One  is  indeed  far  gone  in  worldly  wisdom 
when  he  no  longer  pins  his  faith  to  those  pro- 
fuse and  mammoth  flowerings,  and  when  he 
once  begins  to  distrust  the  colourings  set  forth 
on  the  covers  he  is  a  lost  man.  Let  the  photo- 
grapher turn  his  lenses  on  the  locking-pleasant 
faces  of  his  clients,  and  leave  the  picturing  of 
garden  things  to  the  freer  brush  and  pencil  of 
the  gardener's  choice. 

A  real  gardener  is,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
a  most  honest  man.  One  thinks  of  him,  in- 
stinctively, as  going  to  church  on  Sunday,  his 
wife  by  his  side,  and  a  rosy  tale  of  little  off- 
shoots following  happily  behind.  There  is  a 
clove-pink  in  the  buttonhole  of  his  best  coat, 
and  a  sprig  of  citronella  decorates  the  family 
hymn-book.  One  allows  him  a  glass  of  some- 
thing-and-water,  now  and  then,  to  keep  out 
the  damp,  but  for  generosity — within  discreet 
bounds — for  truthfulness — except  under  great 


26          A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

provocation  and  for  open-mindedness, — except 
on  subjects  on  which  he  knows  that  his  opinions 
cannot  be  bettered, — a  gardener  is  an  honest 
man.  It  is  because  of  our  faith  in  him  that 
we  accept  this  picture  of  a  rose-bush  whereon 
petal  touches  petal  from  root  to  crown  ;  that  we 
believe  in  this  bed  of  pansies,  whereof  no  leaf 
shows,  but  only  a  sheet  of  wide-eyed  blossoms, 
and  that  we  are  eager  to  credit  this  bank 
of  forget-me-nots  with  florets  as  large  as 
sixpences.  In  our  hearts  we  know  that  such 
roses  and  pansies  are  not,  and  that  such  forget- 
me-nots  will  never  be.  Yet  year  by  year  we 
linger  over  those  enchanting  woodcuts  with  an 
interest  more  perennial  than  any  perennial 
whose  virtues  they  celebrate. 

From  the  table  beside  which  I  sit,  I  put 
away  everything  but  an  ink  bottle,  a  pen,  a 
pencil — red  at  one  end  and  blue  at  the  other — 
a  foot-rule,  and  some  sheets  of  paper.  I  make 
believe,  to  use  the  happy  phrase  of  childhood, 
that  the  foot-rule  is  a  tape-reel  hundreds  of  feet 
long,  but,  as  one  must  accommodate  one's 
desires  to  one's  environment  at  times,  the  foot- 
rule  answers  very  well  as  an  ordinary  sur- 
veying outfit.  Where  I  need  to  mark  a  circle 


FEBRUARY  27 

for  a  place  for  a  sundial  I  make  a  very  good 
one  by  drawing  a  line  around  the  cork  of  the 
ink  bottle.  Thus  equipped  I  am  ready  to  be- 
gin my  plans  and  my  lists. 

I  do  not  think  it  could  be  possible  for  a 
garden  to  have  too  much  box.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  am  sure  that  it  could  never  have  enough 
of  that  imperishable  shrub  which  inhales  the 
present  by  its  millions  of  lungs,  and  breathes 
forth  a  past  of  inconceivable  antiquity  in  its 
sighs.  Dr  Holmes  fancied  that  we  have 
brought  with  us  from  some  antecedent  life 
some  subtle  relationship  with  this  shrub,  which 
comes  back  to  us  with  every  inhalation  of  its 
unforgetable  scent.  A  thorough  democrat, 
because  of  its  thorough  aristocracy,  I  do  not 
know  anything  which  grows  so  capable  of  that 
which  we  call  friendship.  The  most  intimate 
secrets  may  safely  be  told  it,  the  safest  counsel 
comes  from  it,  and  summer  and  winter  there  is 
healing  in  its  breath.  It  is  the  most  natural 
shelter  and  playfellow  for  children ;  it  is  the 
fittest  confidant  for  dreaming  youth.  In  the 
book  of  remembrance  over  which  men  pore 
more  and  more  fondly  as  years  go  by,  it 
borders  the  dearest  pages,  and  it  is  the  one 


28          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

thincr  to  hold  in  the  hand  at  the  last.      It  should 

o 

stand  for  immortality  in  the  language  of  the 
flowers  since  in  its  vast  life,  man  is  but  an 
incident,  and  it  is  easy  to  believe  that  when 
the  last  rays  of  the  dying  sun  shall  shine  on 
the  masterless  jewels  which  have  been  the 
pride  of  a  hundred  forgotten  kings,  the  box 
will  catch  the  last  gift  of  its  light  upon  its 
rounded  leaves,  and  then  will  pass  into  the 
final  darkness  without  fear. 

In  my  garden,  therefore,  will  I  have  long 
hedges  of  the  precious  box  leading  in  every 
direction  from  the  dial,  which  is  the  garden's 
heart,  to  the  windbreak,  which  is  even  more 
needful  in  February's  uncertain  thaws  and 
freezes  than  it  was  in  the  steady,  solemn  cold 
of  its  forerunner.  It  is  a  hemlock  shelter  now 
and  feathers  down  toward  the  grass,  in  a  wide 
planting  in  of  rhododendron  and  laurel,  with 
some  mats  of  savin  or  juniper  and  here  and  there 
a  small  cedar.  In  nature  there  are  few  abrupt 
transitions  from  tree  to  grass.  There  is  almost 
always  a  blending  of  boughs  and  blades  through 
the  friendly  air  of  shrubby  growths  and  tall 
plants.  Sometimes  the  effect  of  many  tall 
bare  trunks  is  too  precious  to  be  lost,  as  one 


FEBRUARY  29 

sees  it  in  the  coast  pines,  but  far  more  often  is 
the  beauty  of  those  most  beautiful  of  all  trunks, 
the  beech  boles  and  the  stems  of  birches, 
greater  if  veiled  by  a  foreground  of  green. 
Box  is  not  hospitable  to  close  neighbours,  but 
away  from  it  a  bit,  where  the  dogwoods  have 
tipped  the  foils  with  which  it  fights  the  cold 
with  the  round  buttons  which  are  to  conquer 
the  whole  world  by-and-by,  the  smaller  ever- 
greens must  be  set,  so  that  the  ground  be 
covered  by  them.  The  English  ivy  makes  an 
unexcelled  carpet.  It  will  grow  thus  even  in 
the  most  inhospitable  climates,  if  the  stock 
be  taken  from  plants  already  adjusted  to  the 
surroundings.  The  common  myrtle  is  exceed- 
ingly hardy  and,  once  entrenched,  will  grow  and 
prosper  and  ripen  with  the  years  until  its  rich- 
ness becomes  proverbial.  Thyme  is  another 
winter  carpet  well  worth  everybody's  while  to 
plant,  so  readily  does  it  grow,  so  dense  is  its 
green  and  bronzed  foliage  and  so  homelike  is 
its  scent.  The  most  beautiful  of  our  native 
evergreen  trailers  or  creepers,  the  lycopodium 
and  the  exquisite  partridge-berry,  refuse  domes- 
tication. 

I   put  down  the  foot-rule,  and   the  cork  of 


3o          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

the  ink  bottle.  The  sheet  of  paper  is  filled 
with  radiating  and  connecting  lines  marked 
"box"  and  curly  little  rosettelike  marks  sur- 
rounding figures.  Corresponding  figures  in 
the  footnotes  indicate  the  names  of  the 
trees  and  shrubs  which  are  to  occupy  these 
positions  in  my  garden — hemlock,  dogwood, 
rhododendron,  laurel,  juniper,  savin,  cedar, 
myrtle,  ivy,  thyme ;  it  is  such  a  short  list,  and 
there  is  such  a  worldful  of  things  to  choose 
from ! 

I  take  up  my  pencil — the  red  and  blue  one — 
and  I  begin  on  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper  the  list 
of  seeds  which  I  would  buy  if  I  had  wherewith 
to  buy,  and  wherein  to  sow.  List-making  is  a 
serious  matter,  even  if  one  uses  the  blue  end  of 
the  pencil  to  check  off  the  things  one  must  have, 
and  the  red  end  for  the  things  one  can  do  with- 
out. All  choice  is  serious,  since  life  is  only  a 
series  of  acceptances  and  rejections,  and  either 
may  be  endless  in  its  consequences. 

The  lists  vary  with  the  weather.  A  sunny 
day  ?  Oh,  then  by  all  means  let  me  prepare  a 
retreat  full  of  cool  white  and  green  things 
against  the  summer  heats !  Clouds,  and  a  low 
sobbing  wind  ?  Let  me  have  only  yellow,  sun- 


FEBRUARY  31 

shiny  flowers  in  my  books,  with  many,  many 
light-hearted  pansies,  and  with  plenty  of  frag- 
rant leaves.  On  some  nights  I  will  have 
only  perennials ;  on  some  days  I  turn  from  all 
old  friends  and  care  only  for  those  marked 
"  novelties  "  ;  but  these  are  the  restless  days  in 
which  I  have  gotten  into  the  strange  electric 
currents  that  threaten  the  old,  evolved  peace 
in  which  happiness  dwells.  The  pencil-marks 
shame  me  when  the  ill  mood  has  passed,  and 
my  heart  has  again  found  anchorage  in  the  still 
waters  beside  which  the  flowers  of  my  youth 
are  growing.  Sometimes,  in  sheer  despair  of 
making  a  list  to  which  I  can  ever  hope  to 
write  "the  end,"  I  decide  to  proceed  in  the 
orthodox,  alphabetical  manner.  I  did  so 
yesterday,  and  I  got  no  farther  than  the  word 
Adlumia. 

So  it  stands  on  the  seedsmen's  lists.  I  hope 
I  need  not  again  write  down  a  Latin  or  a 
Latinised  name.  They  have  their  uses,  and 
"  express  the  plant's  standing  in  the  scientific 
world,  as  its  common  name  reveals  its  relation 
to  humanity."  There  is  always  a  bit  of  the 
life  of  the  plant  itself  in  its  common  name,  its 
home,  its  private  story,  its  affiliation  with  rock 


32          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

or  water,  its  suggestion  of  bird  or  beast,  its 
healing  graces.  It  is  touched,  thus,  by  man's 
religion,  by  his  superstition,  by  his  loves, — not 
often  by  his  hates.  Poetry  lurks  in  every 
letter  that  helps  to  spell  out  the  names  of  the 
oldest  favourites.  A  rose  would  most  certainly 
not  be  as  sweet  by  another  name,  and  if  the 
daffodil  were  robbed  of  one  syllable  of  the 
name  that  looks  like  its  upspringing,  slender 
leaves,  and  sounds  like  the  music  of  its  pale 
trumpets,  it  would  not  be  the  daffodil  that  I 
love. 

So,  because  I  have  lists  headed  "  Creepers, 
trailers  and  climbers,"  "  Biennials,"  and  "  Old 
friends,"  and  because  at  the  head  of  each  stands 
this  unlovely  word — which  I  have  just  crossed 
out,  and  for  which  I  have  substituted  "  Alle- 
ghany  vine,"  and  "  Mountain  fringe " — I  sat 
with  poised  pencil,  and  wondered  why  this 
particular  little  plant  should  have  been  registered 
in  so  many  places,  and  as  I  wondered  I  began 
to  dream  dreams,  and  to  see  visions. 

Once  upon  a  time,  in  the  country  that  lies 
Back  of  Beyond,  there  stood  a  farmhouse. 
Pine-trees  stood  about  it  chanting  perpetually 
that  battle  hymn  of  the  republic  of  trees  in 


FEBRUARY  33 

which  they  bid  defiance  to  all  the  winds  that 
blow,  and  fling  down  a  gage  to  all  the  powers 
of  frost,  and  cold,  and  quick-spent  lightning. 
Or  else,  in  summer  twilights,  and  in  silvery 
April  dawns,  they  sang  a  love-song  as  old  as 
the  eternities  and  as  vast  as  space.  Back  of 
the  farmhouse  lay  an  orchard  :  rose-white  in 
April,  pearl-white  in  May,  green  in  midsummer, 
golden  and  crimson  and  russet  at  the  fall  of  the 
leaf,  and  grey  and  brown  in  winter.  Through 
it  the  seasons  came  and  went  in  orderly  pro- 
cession. Children  played  in  it.  Thrushes 
sang  there  in  the  starlit  dusks,  and  a  gentle 
old  man  with  white  hair  walked  there  in  the 
sunshine  of  the  afternoons.  The  winds  came 
sweet  and  pure  across  the  fields  to  rustle  the 
curtain  that  overhung  the  farmhouse  door. 
Such  a  curtain !  The  gracious,  wandering 
sprays  of  which  it  was  woven  were  like  green 
frostwork ;  the  pink-white  clusters  of  its  odd 
little  pendent  flowers  were  not  flowers  at  all, 
but  quaintest  fairy  garments  hung  out  to  dry 
after  the  rain  that  had  silvered  the  leaves,  and 
oh !  the  exquisite  roundness  and  blackness 
and  shiningness  of  the  tiny  seeds !  To  gather 
and  gather  them  was  one  of  the  joys  of  the 


34          A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

childhood  that  threw  them  away  after  the 
moment's  possession  which  sufficed  even  for 
things  so  beautiful  and  so  precious.  Have  I 
not  given  good  and  sufficient  reasons  why  the 
Alleghany  vines  cannot  be  left  out  ?  Is  there 
not  a  memory  like  this  behind  the  name  of 
every  flower  that  grows,  and  when  the  mid- 
night has  turned  toward  morning,  and  the 
rain  is  falling,  does  not  the  homesick  heart 
cry  out  for  the  loved  ones  at  home  ? 

Down  goes  the  list  and  out  comes  the  foot- 
rule.  When  I  was  laying  out  my  box  borders 
I  forgot  to  put  in  a  privet  hedge.  There  is 
nothing  prettier  than  the  sturdy  privet,  which 
carries  its  clean,  dark  leaves  well  into  the 
winter  and,  after  its  pearly  flowers  in  mid 
summer,  jets  itself  over  with  shining  black 
berries.  I  must  plant  privet  across  the  lower 
end  of  my  paper  or — stay — shall  I  not  have  a 
cherry-tree  at  either  corner,  which  will  grow 
bigger  and  bonnier  as  the  years  go  by,  and 
between  them  a  strong  netting  for  sweetpeas 
and  colza,  and  moon  vine  and  morning  glory  ? 
Or  would  it  not  be  better  to  build  in  a  lat- 
tice for  sweetbriar  and  eglantine,  and  prairie 
queen  and  Baltimore  belles,  and  for  clematis, 


FEBRUARY  35 

and  starry  honeysuckle,  and  all  the  healthy, 
hardy  things  that  would  love  to  climb  over  it 
or  lean  against  it  ?  Yes,  I  will  have  the  lattice, 
and  the  sweetpeas  can  grow  on  a  netting  some- 
where else. 

The  foot-rule  goes  into  the  drawer.  The 
lattice  may  be  any  length  I  choose,  so  there 
is  no  need  to  measure  it  off. 

I  count  myself  in  few  things  else  so  happy  as 
that  even  on  a  seedman's  list  of  flowers  I  can 
read  the  whole  story  of  my  life.  Thoreau  says 
that  there  is  a  flower  for  every  mood  of  the  mind, 
and  it  has  long  been  an  article  of  faith  with 
me  that  the  history  of  any  country-bred  heart 
can  be  told  by  the  flowers  he  loves  best.  A 
child  cares  most  for  the  things  that  are  nearest 
at  hand.  With  the  minted  gold  of  the  dande- 
lions, and  the  measureless  wealth  of  daisies 
and  buttercups  he  fills  his  hands  and  his  heart 
with  happiness  and  splendour.  Later,  while 
still  unspotted  by  the  world,  he  cares  for  those 
which  he  can  bend  to  the  new  uses  which  life 
is  every  day  discovering  to  him,  and  he  enters 
into  that  poetic  relation  with  the  Over  Soul 
which  is  expressed  in  the  flower  games,  world 
old,  but  new  to  every  generation  of  men  and  of 


36          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

things.  He  fights  violet  battles  ;  he  has  snow- 
ball wars.  He  gives  balls  at  which  the  guests 
come  freshly  and  beautifully  dressed  from  the 
rows  of  hollyhocks,  and  from  the  beds  of 
balsams,  and  are  feasted  at  tables  spread  with 
cups  cut  from  rose  hips  filled  with  wine  turned 
from  water,  and  held  in  bottles  made  by  patient 
manipulations  of  the  thin  outer  membranes  of 
the  leaves  of  live-for-ever,  and  plates  which  were 
acorn  cups,  and  handsomely  set  out  with  mallow 
cheeses.  Larkspurs  come  into  value  when  it 
is  discovered  that  their  honey-horns  may  be 
removed  and  strung  together  into  the  wreaths 
which  are  found,  sometimes,  in  after  years,  and 
in  alien  places,  among  the  leaves  of  forgotten 
books. 

Phlox  grows  because  of  its  great  value  as 
necklace  and  bracelet  making  material :  orna- 
ments so  necessary  in  the  personal  adornment 
of  the  actresses  in  the  dramas  so  easily  arranged 
if  one  have  but  a  bit  of  sunlit  turf  for  a  stage, 
and  a  lilac  bush  by  way  of  withdrawing-room. 
A  thousand  industries  keep  the  child  busy  in 
the  summer  garden,  alive  with  elves  and  fairies, 
and  full  of  enchanted  castles,  with  moat  and 
drawbridge  all  complete,  and  the  relations  there 


FEBRUARY  37 

established  between  him  and  the  infinite  heart 
of  Nature  will  be  eternal.  I  should  not  like  to 
think  of  children  and  fairies  and  gardens,  and 
leave  unquoted  these  verses  from  one  of  the 
Kate  Greenaway  books  : 

"  Beneath  the  lilies,  tall,  white  garden  lilies, 
A  princess  slept  her  charmed  life  away, 
For  ever  were  the  fairy  bluebells  ringing, 
For  ever  through  the  night  and  through  the  day; 

"  When  lo  !  a  prince  came  riding  through  the  sunshine  1 
The  wind  just  touched  the  lilies,  to  and  fro, 
And  woke  the  princess,  while  the  bluebell  music 
Kept  ringing,  ringing,  sleepily  and  low." 

As  childhood  gives  way  before  the  mysterious 
disturbances  of  larger  growth,  other  flowers 
become  dear.  Cowslips  give  place  to  pansies, 
and  daisies  to  violets.  Flower-beds  are  too 
small  to  hold  all  the  sweetpeas  and  mignonette 
one  ought  to  have,  and  the  longest  hours  are 
too  short  for  the  converse  one  would  like  to 
hold  with  the  lily-of-the-valley.  Then  come 
roses,  only  roses,  and  it  is  a  part  of  the  rainbow 
gold  that  gilds  all  our  morning  thoughts,  and 
lures  us  on  to  hopes  of  high  achievement,  that 
our  roses  must  be  large  and  splendid,  heavy 
with  odour  and  rich  with  colour.  We  may 


38          A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

have  our  days  when  the  tea  rose  is  all-in-all 
to  us ;  and  we  may  have  moods  in  which  the 
appeal  comes  from  the  gorgeous  hybrids,  but 
it  is  always  the  big,  triumphant  roses  for 
which  we  care.  Later  we  come  to  an  ap- 
preciation of  the  simpler  flowers,  the  pink- 
and- white  cabbage  roses,  the  hardy  little 
Scotch  roses,  or  the  sweetbriar,  and  at  last 
we  arrive  at  the  rose  of  a  hundred  leaves,  and 
then  we  know  that  we  have  reached  the  top 
of  the  hill. 

We  do  not  lay  aside  any  of  our  old  loves 
even  then.  They  are  a  part  of  ourselves,  and 
we  could  as  easily  change  the  colour  of  our 
eyes  as  our  loyalty  to  those  tried  friends, 
but  henceforth  we  add  others  slowly  to  our 
affections,  and  these  are  chosen  frankly  be- 
cause of  their  wearing  qualities.  Asters  come 
in  for  a  great  share  of  our  favour,  and  hardy 
phlox,  and  even  dahlias,  and  zinnias,  and 
always  chrysanthemums.  In  a  world  where 
life  is  a  vain  and  fleeting  show — as  saith  the 
old  hymn — and  all  passes  like  a  dream,  we 
come  to  hold  fast  by  the  sturdier  friends  who 
can  stay  with  us  for  a  longer  time  than  the 
rose's  little  day,  or  for  the  brief  glory  of  the 


FEBRUARY  39 

iris,  and  so  we  pass  on  into  relations  with 
the  good  perennials  and  shrubby  things  on 
which  we  can  rely  with  a  sense  of  content- 
ment born  of  long  experience. 

Then,  as  a  gentle  spirit  is  ever  going  back- 
ward toward  the  Youth  it  remembers  while  the 
Youth  it  knows  not  draws  near,  our  hearts  go 
back  to  the  lost  dreams  of  our  morning  time 
and  we  come  into  fresh  and  closer  companion- 
ship with  the  flowers  of  our  dawn.  The 
daffodil  becomes  a  cup  from  which  we  drink — 
not  to  our  friends  behind,  but  to  our  friends 
before.  Violets  are  violets  no  longer,  but 
symbols  of  that  which  we  can  no  more  share 
with  another  than  we  can  share  aught  else  of 
the  richest,  sweetest  happenings  to  our  souls. 
Deep  is  calling  unto  deep,  and  once  again,  be- 
hold !  all  things  are  new. 

As  in  the  Shepherd's  Calendar  each  month 
had  its  emblem,  so  has  mine.  January  had 
the  Christmas  rose ;  February  has  a  flower 
even  fairer  for  her  own.  In  the  chill  northern 
garden  in  which — in  spite  of  the  pencils  and 
the  foot-rule  and  the  catalogues — I  have  gotten 
only  so  far  as  a  wind-break,  some  box  borders 
and  a  lattice,  I  must  show  you  my  snowdrops. 


40          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

Their  only  rival  is  the  border  which  grew  in 
the  garden  at  Nuneaton,  where  George  Eliot 
played  as  a  little  sister.  By  the  time  she  was 
old  enough  to  drink  in  their  beauty,  the  aged 
sods  of  snowdrops,  a  foot  in  width,  bordered  a 
path  thirty  feet  long.  I  have  dreamed  about 
that  border  for  years  and  years  !  Since  there  is 
no  sensation  more  pure  and  innocent  than  the 
recognition  of  that  first  beating  of  the  heart  of 
the  rising  of  the  Spirit  of  all  things  visible — 
which  is  expressed  in  this  flower.  The  tiny 
spark  of  vitality  which  warms  the  breast  of 
the  pines  and  the  chick-a-dee  is  the  only 
thing  I  know  as  full  of  the  Life  Everlasting 
as  is  the  snowdrop.  By  her  own  courage 
she  melts  the  snow  above  her,  and  pushes 
her  green  stalk  through  the  round  little  well 
which  she  has  thawed  by  the  warm  pulsing 
of  her  own  high  purpose,  and  aided  by  one, 
at  least,  of  the 

"ten  thousand  liveried  angels" 

which  lackey  the  chaste  soul.  She  hangs  out 
her  bells :  green  for  summer  coming ;  white 
for  winter  going.  She  has  so  many  pretty 
names— Candlemas  bells,  Our  Lady's  bells, 


FEBRUARY  41 

fair  maids  of  February,  Notre  Dame  Fevriere, 
the  dainty  lady  with  the  honey-sweet  breath ! 
After  all,  twenty-eight  days  are  none  too 
many  for  a  moon  which  can  bring  us  a  snow- 
drop ! 


MARCH 


On  the  western  sky,  in  a  yellow  line 

The  wind  of  his  might  paints  a  warning  sign. 

The  March  clouds,  torn  like  shipwrecked  sails, 

Drift  at  the  will  of  the  angry  gales. 

On  crumbling  log  the  moss  grows  green  ; 

The  free'd  brook  laughs  the  rocks  between  ; 

The  melting  snow,  the  sap's  full  tide, 

The  varnished  buds  that  the  young  leaves  hide  ; 

These,  and  the  flush  on  the  Mayflower's  cheek 
To  dullest  ear  Spring's  message  speak. 


MARCH 

THE   GREEN    MOON 

T  F  February  be  for  plans,  so  is  March. 
Already  there  is  what  countryfolk  call  "a 
feel  of  spring  "  in  the  air,  and  we  are  conscious 
of  a  distinct  personality  as  he  approaches 
— boisterous,  uncertain,  often  unkind — always 
stimulating,  and  always  sure  to  bring  gifts 
which  no  one  else  can  offer. 

There  are  those  who  say  "  it  is  spring " 
when  the  last  leaf  is  torn  from  the  February 
calendar ;  there  are  those  who  are  so  precise 
as  to  leave  the  word  unsaid  until  the  sun  has 
crossed  the  line,  and  they  can  take  part  in  the 
ancient  wrangle  over  the  equinoctial  storms. 
It  is  really  spring  when  the  first  robin  calls 
from  the  tree  top,  and  the  first  bluebird  warbles 
the  delicate  spirals  of  the  plaintive  melody  of 
her  "wandering  voice."  It  is  full  spring  for 
the  heart  when  the  solemn  and  mysterious 
calling  of  the  wild  geese  cleaves  the  air  with  a 
45 


46  A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

sound  that  seems  almost  an  echo  from  skies 
divided  by  their  wedge-shaped  flight.  There 
is  nothing  that  is  quite  of  the  same  value  as 
that  high,  lonely  crying ;  and  poor  indeed  is 
the  garden  above  which  it  is  not  heard.  I 
remember  a  warm,  misty  night  when  the  birds, 
attracted  by  the  lights  of  the  city  ;  bewildered 
by  having  lost  their  invisible  clue  ;  circled, 
crying,  calling  overhead  for  hours — a  most 
mysterious  night. 

There  are  so  many  winds  abroad  in  March, 
and  so  many  cruel  damps  and  chills,  that  I 
shall  shut  in  my  garden  to-night  by  a  high 
brick  wall,  and  I  shall  content  myself  with 
smaller  quarters  than  I  found  necessary  when 
I  needed  wide  spaces  for  my  January  ever- 
greens, or  when  February  called  for  long 
stretches  for  my  box  walks.  I  think  I  can 
get  all  I  need  within  the  compass  of  an 
acre,  but  I  must  insist  upon  the  brick  walls — 
red-brick,  mellowed  to  dullness  by  time,  and 
overgrown  with  the  mosses  that  are  so  quick 
to  respond  to  the  warmth  of  the  returning 
sun.  I  cannot  but  think  that  it  was  by  ob- 
servation of  the  quick  colouring  of  these 
charming  plants,  and  the  way  they  have  of 


MARCH  47 

turning  the  last  frosts  and  the  first  rains  to 
account  by  their  swelling  and  expanding  scales 
and  fronds,  that  the  Indians  gave  this  month 
the  name  of  "  The  Green  Moon."  Bradford 
Torrey  happily  says  that  "The  North 
American  Indians  had  a  genius  for  names 
as  the  Greeks  had  for  sculpture  and  for 
poetry."  For  thoughts  reaching  into  the 
heart  of  things  also,  he  might  have  added. 

The  mosses  are  the  true  aristocrats  of  that 
kingdom  for  which  I  devoutly  wish  we  had  a 
better  name  than  vegetable.  Theirs  is  the 
longest  pedigree  and  the  proudest  conscious- 
ness of  a  great  work  done  to  make  the  world 
habitable.  Forgotten  in  the  great  rush  of 
modern  life,  they  cling  to  the  rocks  and  hide 
in  the  forests  for  the  most  part,  but  they  love 
to  haunt  neglected  walls  and  old  roofs,  giving 
the  grace  of  their  colour  and  texture  to  crumb- 
ling decay,  and  welcoming  remembering  winds 
and  rains,  quite  careless  of  the  poor  creatures 
called  men,  who  are  but  for  a  day. 

The  wall  is  to  be  broken  here  and  there  by 
shallow  buttresses.  Against  these  ivies  cling, 
and  the  beautiful  Japanese  ampelopsis.  There 
is  an  evergreen,  climbing  euonymus,  which  is 


48          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

excellent  and  hardy  in  such  situations,  and 
there  must  be  roses  everywhere.  Even  in 
March  the  strong  canes  and  thorns  of  the 
roses  are  attractive,  and  although  they  have 
no  leaves  the  tiny  scarlet  buds  are  bright  with 
promise.  Stiff  junipers  and  standard  box  and 
fire-berries  must  group  themselves  along  the 
wall  irregularly,  and  there  must  be  a  thicket 
or  two  of  Thunberg's  barberry  with  coral  tips 
along  its  quickset  branches.  This  good  little 
shrub  bears  the  only  berry  which  retains  its 
colour  all  the  winter.  An  upright  evergreen 
euonymus  is  so  great  a  favourite  with  me  that 
I  must  have  it  standing  sentinel  wherever  a 
sentinel  is  needed.  In  and  around  these 
bushes  as  much  myrtle  as  chooses  may  grow 
unhindered,  since  nothing  can  be  more  cheer- 
ful than  its  shining  leaves. 

In  the  warmest  angles  of  the  wall  I  must 
have  many  plantings  of  the  small-flowered 
yellow  jessamine,  which  ought  to  be  hardy 
everywhere,  but  which  needs  a  bit  of  shelter 
as  far  north  as  Philadelphia.  Its  green  canes 
are  prettily  angled  and  curve  most  gracefully, 
its  pointed  buds  are  so  eager  to  turn  them- 
selves into  golden  stars  that  a  bush  is  almost 


MARCH  49 

sure  to  bear  a  few  of  them  after  two  or  three 
days'  sunshine  in  all  but  the  bitterest  weather. 
I  do  not  know  why  this  cheerful  shrub,  which 
is  so  peculiarly  adapted  to  warm  corners  and 
sunny  walls,  is  not  more  generally  grown.  It 
is  so  clean,  so  free  from  insect  enemies,  and 
so  altogether  desirable  that  I  would  that  some 
Society  for  the  Propagation  of  Good  Cheer 
would  send  it  forth  broadcast  over  the  land  to 
preach  its  gospel  of  good  will  and  hopefulqess. 
Even  in  the  coldest  days  a  handful  of  its  twigs 
brought  into  the  house  and  placed  in  a  glass 
of  water  will  make  haste  to  return  thanks  for 
the  hospitality  received,  by  opening  its  yellow 
blossoms,  and  all  summer  long  its  fountainlike 
growth  makes  it  a  thing  of  beauty. 

Two  or  three  scarlet  maples  must  stand  at 
the  farther  end  of  my  garden,  and  close  beside 
them,  well  away  from  drains  and  water-pipes, 
a  willow  or  two,  whose  yellow  stems  will 
brighten  as  the  days  draw  near  in  which  they 
may  toss  out  their  catkins  and  push  forth  their 
leaves.  The  old  English  names  of  sallow  and 
palm  are  forgotten  here,  the  latter  name  being 
given  by  the  sweet  old  fashion  of  using  the 
green  thing  nearest  at  hand  on  Palm  Sunday. 


50          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

Not  everyone  knows  that  the  odour  of  blos- 
soming willows  is  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most 
refreshing  of  odours.  Willows  are  Nature's 
thermometers,  which  one  soon  learns  to  trust. 
Perhaps  they  will  not  open  their  buds  just 
when  we  think  they  ought,  but  they  know 
infallibly  when  winter  is  past  and  gone,  and 
the  time  of  singing  birds  appear ;  and  it  is  a 
wise  gardener  who  looks  at  his  sallows,  not  at 
his  almanac,  or  even  at  his  last  year's  note- 
book. 

In  a  proper  March  garden  there  is  also  a 
sassafras,  a  spice-bush,  and  a  "pussy"  willow : 
three  true-hearted  Americans,  accustomed  to 
our  late  springs,  and  careless  of  our  inhospit- 
able winds.  There  is  small  sense  shown  in 
sending  all  over  the  face  of  the  earth  for 
doubtfully  adaptable  shrubs  when  our  own 
waste  places  give  us  such  treasures  as  these 
and  many  another  perfectly  in  harmony  with 
our  environment.  More  and  more  every  year 
we  are  losing  our  idle  desire  for  novelty  and 
our  slavish  wish  to  imitate  the  gardens  of  other 
countries,  and  are  coming  to  understand  that 
our  greatest  opportunity  for  having  successful 
plantings  lies  in  our  hearty  acceptation  of  the 


MARCH  51 

aid  of  our  closest  neighbours.  We  are  not  of 
the  tropics,  so  why  waste  time  and  money  in 
efforts  to  give  a  tropical  effect  to  our  patently 
northern-temperate  pleasure  grounds  ?  Thank- 
fully, indeed,  do  we  accept  the  treasures  brought 
to  us  from  foreign  lands,  and  adapted  to  our 
needs  by  patient,  generally  unknown,  growers, 
but  it  ought  to  be  our  pride  to  think  first  of 
those  things  which  are  a  part  of  our  goodly 
heritage  as  Americans.  Good  sense,  as  well 
as  good  patriotism  and  good  taste,  should  lead 
us  to  make  the  most  of  the  plants  which  have 
fitted  themselves  to  our  soil  and  our  climate  by 
uncounted  ages  of  careful  adjustment.  Think 
of  the  trees  which  may  be  brought  in  from 
any  bit  of  woodland  and  planted  without  the 
long  exposure  that  must  lie  between  a  nursery 
and  the  planting  site.  Pines,  oaks,  elms, 
lindens,  beeches,  maples,  sycamores,  tulip- 
poplars,  birches,  hemlocks,  larches,  firs,  spruces, 
wild  cherries,  catalpas,  ash,  mountain  ash, 
sassafras !  Look  at  the  smaller  trees  and 
lesser  shrubs,  almost  all  of  which  grow  within 
two  hours'  drive  of  our  eastern  or  middle- 
western  towns  and  villages,  the  judas  tree, 
dogwoods,  thorns,  crab-apples,  sumachs, 


52          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

wahoos,  witch  hazel,  magnolia — for  the  south- 
east —  fringe  tree  —  south-east  also  —  elders, 
white  flowered  and  red  berried.  Then  think  of 
the  rhododendrons,  laurels,  azaleas,  barberries, 
blackberries,  spice-bushes,  wild  roses  and 
snowberries !  Of  hardy  herbaceous  plants 
and  bulbs  we  have  enough  to  keep  the  garden 
fair  and  sweet  from  early  until  late, — hepati- 
cas,  bloodroots,  violets,  thalactrums,  trilliums, 
phloxes,  lady's  slippers,  columbines,  larkspurs, 
iris,  lilies,  lobelias,  blue  and  red,  monardas, 
liatris,  ox-eyes,  buttercups,  ageratums,  helian- 
thus,  rudbeckias,  yarrows,  goldenrods,  all  of 
the  wonder-world  of  asters,  the  ferns,  the 
grasses  and  the  sedges !  The  list  is  endless, 
and  the  joy  of  giving  a  helping  hand  to  these 
beautiful  compatriots  (some  of  whom  are  in 
danger  of  their  lives  from  the  ignorance  and 
greed  of  men)  is  one  that  need  not  be  withheld 
from  anyone  who  has  an  ell  of  ground.  If  you 
like,  you  can  buy  all  of  these,  and  many  another 
from  some  of  the  sensible  and  public-spirited 
growers,  who  devote  themselves  to  the  cultiva- 
tion and  dissemination  of  patriotism  in  this 
charming  way.  You  will  find,  however,  that 
your  garden  means  something  very  much 


MARCH  53 

higher  and  broader  and  deeper  if  you  can 
collect  your  treasures  for  yourself,  and  if,  with 
every  plant  you  gather  into  your  fold,  you 
garner  also  a  memory  of  the  time  and  place 
from  whence  it  came  ;  of  the  friend  who  dug  it 
for  you,  sharing  your  joy  in  its  discovery,  and 
adding  his  good  will  to  your  happy  tasks.  A 
garden  must  send  its  roots  down  into  the  heart 
of  all  that  goes  to  make  your  life  if  it  is  to 
avail  in  its  highest  purpose,  and  beneath  the 
earth  stirred  by  your  spade  and  trowel  there 
must  be  a  subsoil  rich  with  memories  and  sweet 
with  love. 

With  hope  also !  March  lies  in  the  Region 
of  Pure  Hope,  the  one  apostolic  grace  which 
comes  by  nature,  and  which  outlasts  our  life. 
I  like  to  think  of  it  as  having  for  its  laureate 
the  buoyant  Stevenson,  own  brother  to  the 
robins  and  to  the  windy  dawns  and  sunsets  of 
the  warring  month,  in  his  brave  fight  for  better 
things.  He  must  wear  on  his  breast,  as  star 
of  the  order  of  high  hearts,  a  knot  of  snow- 
drops, of  which  there  would  not  be  enough  if 
half  of  the  brown  March  fields  were  covered 
by  their  pearly  blossoms.  Even  he  did  not  say 
the  right  word  concerning  this  flower,  with  the 


54          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

curved  white  sepals,  the  three  of  hearts  painted  in 
green  upon  their  drooping  corollas:  the  modest 
poise  of  their  pretty  heads ;  the  faint  sweet 
breath  with  which  they  call  the  half-awakened 
bees!  To  Wordsworth  a  snowdrop  was  "a 
part  of  the  sermon  on  the  Mount." 

Even  before  the  snowdrops  come,  the  maples 
begun  to  think  of  spring,  and  their  red  leaf- 
scales  and  flower  buds  announce  that  the  sap 
has  already  mounted  to  the  farthermost  tip  of 
the  branches,  and  sugar-making  time  is  here. 
It  marks  the  first  stage  of  the  farm-year  in  the 
woods,  which  are  the  best  part  of  the  farm- 
garden.  The  sweetest  harvest  of  the  tem- 
perate zone  is  that  which  drips  from  the 
wooden  spills  driven  into  the  maple's  bole,  into 
the  wooden  trough  below.  Here  is  gardening 
indeed,  and  a  welding  of  many  industries  into 
one.  The  troughs,  to  be  proper  sugar  troughs, 
of  the  kind  that  belong  to  the  old  days  before 
glucose  and  other  abominations,  are  made  by 
leisurely  winter  firesides,  by  members  of  those 
arts  and  crafts  societies  of  the  countryside 
whose  work  is  always  beautiful  since  it  is 
always  sincere  and  direct.  The  faint  blue 
reek  of  the  sugarmaker's  fire,  diffused  through 


MARCH  55 

the  still  air,  is  reflected  in  the  blue  eyes  which 
the  first  hepatica  opens  under  its  furry  hood  at 
the  tree's  foot,  and  which  seems  to  be  a  part 
of  the  wild,  uncloying  sweetness  drawn  from 
the  maple's  very  heart. 

"  All  the  forest  life  is  in  it 
All  the  mystery  and  magic." 

The  name  maple  is  almost  the  only  Celtic 
plant-name  left  us — hawthorn  and  groundsel 
being  its  only  rivals,  and  the  sugar  camp  is  the 
one  link  left  our  rather  prosaic  farmers,  and 
their  remotest  nomadic  ancestors.  Sugar- 
making  is  not  a  labour  :  it  is  a  rite. 

When  there  are  hepaticas  in  the  wood-gar- 
den there  are  crocus  in  the  home  one.     Their 
stout  spears,  covered  by  a  tough,  white,  pro- 
tective  tissue,    have    been    feeling   their   way 
since  the  snowdrops  first  hung  out  their  wel- 
come to  the  spring  winds.     Of  these  two,  the 
gardener  is  exceedingly  greedy,  nor  would  he 
have   too   many   if  he  walked   through   their 
native  fields  in  Greece  and  the  Levant.     Men 
gather  their  golden   hearts   there,   and    make 
commerce  of  them,  hiding  their  veniality  by 
calling   the   product   saffron.     Of  that  colour 


56          A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

were  the  robes  of  Aurora,  and  of  Hymen, 
and  of  that 

"Lyric  woman  with  the  crocus  vest 
Woven  of  sea  wools." 

sent  to  Cleon  by  Protus.  Bacon  would  have 
crocus  in  the  garden  of  his  dreams,  and  spoke 
of  them  by  the  colours  which  they  still  wear 
for  us — yellow,  purple,  white  and  grey.  We 
have  but  to  look  at  the  shadows  in  a  blue-and- 
white  crocus  to  see  that  his  use  of  the  adjective 
is  true,  and  that  his  eyes  were  more  discriminat- 
ing than  ours  would  have  been  without  them. 

What  a  piece  of  work  is  that  garden  essay 
of  his !  After  all  the  years,  and  even  centuries, 
that  have  passed  since  it  was  written,  it  re- 
mains the  crown  and  summit  of  all  garden 
words.  Where  else  are  written  down  delights 
so  ravishing  as  are  condensed  in  those  all  too 
few  pages  in  which  he  who  had  "  taken  all 
knowledge  to  be  his  province"  tells  of  the 
pleasure  gardens  he  would  have  if  he  could? 
Of  all  that  he  did  or  said  or  wrote  nothing  is  so 
well  known  and  well  loved  as  his  garden  essay, 
which,  like  my  own,  lay  in  that  part  of  Spain 
known  as  Heart's  Delight.  Wise  and  simple, 


MARCH  57 

rich  and  poor,  how  many  generations  of  men 
have  walked  in  thought  over  the  thymy  reaches 
of  those  sweet  acres  ;  have  rested  in  those  dusky 
boscages  ;  have  passed  along  the  parti-coloured 
borders  where 

"One  by  one,  the  daughters  of  the  year 
Through  that  still  garden  passed," 

each  with  her  coronal  whose  colours  and  odours 
no  time  can  fade  or  change — a  true  paradise, 
that,  in  which  world-weary  hearts  may  ever 
walk  by  faith,  and  where  joys  pure  and  imper- 
ishable are  hoarded  up  for  the  refreshment  of 
the  citizens  of  all  time  ! 

The  little  crocus  hath   made  many  friends, 
and  loved  ones  and  true. 

"  They  were  all  said  in  Herrick's  days, 
Of  flowers  the  fittest  words  of  praise  ; 
As  worthy  praise  are  you  ! 
As  brave  you  lift  your  chalice  up, 
With  wine  as  rare  you  crown  your  cup, 
O  Crocus,  brimmed  with  dew  ! 

"  And  were  old  Robert  here  to  paint 
Your  cheerful  virtues,  humble  saint, 
Pure,  knowing  naught  of  fear  : 
'Twould  scarce  be  better  worth  your  while 
To  light  the  March  days  with  your  smile, 
Than  'tis  for  us,  my  dear? 


58          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

"  And  in  our  northern  land,  as  sweet 
A  welcome  waits  your  punctual  feet 
As  Charles's  bard  could  bring. 
Not  lealer  heart  e'en  he  could  bear, 
Than  ours  that  greet  you,  year  by  year, 
O  herald  of  the  spring  ! 

"  For  us  the  winter,  too,  was  long 
And  hearts  grew  faint  that  had  been  strong 
With  waiting  for  your  day  ! 
But  now,  with  happy  bees  that  rest 
For  hours  contented  in  your  breast, 
We  sing  our  roundelay. 

"  Not  richest  gold  of  richest  mine 
Can  'gainst  your  yellow  glories  shine 
And  not  grow  dim  and  pale. 
First  largesse  of  the  year,  you  are 
In  her  bright  dawn  the  fairest  star 
First,  fairest,  crocus,  hail !" 

Before  the  crocus  are  fairly  aflame  the  black 
mould  is  pierced  by  the  stout  green  shoots  of 
the  daffodil,  an  event  to  be  marked  in  red 
letters  in  all  the  calendars  of  No- Man's- Land. 
The  hour  the  pointed  wedges  cleave  the  earth 
is  a  sacred  vigil,  pointing  onward  to  the  holy 
day  when  the  brave  trumpets  of  this  flower 
of  flowers  ushers  in  the  spring.  When  one 
has  once  lost  his  heart  to  the  daffodil,  he 
has  no  recourse.  All  other  blossoms  seem 
tame  and  uninteresting  beside  it,  and  the  rose 


MARCH  59 

herself  but  a  common   thing   for   a  common 
eye. 

Charles  Lamb  called  Spenser  "  the  poets' 
poet,"  and  surely  the  daffodil  is  the  poets' 
flower.  From  the  oldest  days  it  had  its 
votaries  among  them,  the  singing  syllables  of 
its  very  name  being  brought  from  the  asphodel 
which  grows  in  many  a  goddess -haunted 
meadow,  and  which  was,  men  think,  this  very 
flower.  We  know  it  to  have  been  called 
asphodel  of  old  French  and  English  bards, 
and  how  dearly  they  have  loved  it  we  may 
know  if  we  care  to  read.  Chaucer  cared  for 
the  flowers,  Spenser  saw  them  blooming  in 
fairyland,  and  Shakespeare  made  himself  their 
poet  laureate  for  ever  when  he  spoke  of  the 

"  Daffodils 

That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  takes 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty." 

Milton  wove  them  into  that  strange  garland 
which  only  a  town  -  bred  fancy  could  have 
fashioned. 

"  To  deck  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies." 

Herrick  followed  with  delicate,  pensive 
verses,  so  true,  so  dear,  that  he  who  has 


60          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

read  them  a  hundred  times  has  only  begun 
to  discern  their  beauty.  Keats  and  Shelley 
loved  them,  and  oh !  how  they  danced  before 
Wordsworth's  adoring  eyes ! 

To  Swinburne  they  showed  one  of  their 
many  sides  before  he  wrote  of  one  of  them — 

"  Erect,  a  fighting  flower, 
It  breasts  the  breeziest  hour 
That  ever  blew; 

For  all  the  storm  wind  saith  still, 
Stout  stands  the  daffodil." 

In  a  most  appreciative  study  of  the  flower 
the  Rev.  Hugh  Macmillan  wrote :  "  There  is 
no  flower  so  vigorous  and  so  full  of  life.  It 
has  the  strength  and  simplicity  of  a  Doric 
column.  We  have  in  this  flower  of  March, 
the  beautiful  combination  of  winter  and 
summer ;  of  the  raincloud  and  the  sunbeam  ; 
of  the  warmth  of  the  sun  in  its  bloom,  and 
the  coolness  and  freshness  of  the  floods  in  its 
leaves  :  the  whole  plant  being  thus  an  expres- 
sive symbol  of  the  true  elements  that  help  to 
make  up  its  lovely  life." 

We  could  follow  it  through  the  pages  of 
Tennyson,  of  the  Rossettis,  of  de  Vere,  of  Jean 
Ingelow,  of  Mrs  Ewing,  of  Austin  Dobson, 


MARCH  6 1 

and  of  many  and  many  a  writer  whose  pages 
have  been  lightened  by  the  charming  gaiety 
of  its  virginal  innocence.  Among  all  the 
books  that  be  there  is  one  lacking,  and  that 
is  one  in  which  all  that  has  been  said  and 
painted  and  sung  of  this  flower  may  be 
gathered  into  a  volume  for  its  lovers.  I 
wonder  if  there  would  be  room  in  it  for  such 
lines  as  these — 

The  March  winds  blow,  now  high,  now  low, 
The  changeful  shadows  come  and  go, 
The  old  Earth  stirs  in  her  sleep  and  wakes, 
On  greening  fields  her  glad  smile  breaks: 

And  into  the  ear  of  the  waking  year 
Faint,  fairy  music  is  ringing  clear  : 
Blown  from  the  golden  trumpets  fair 
The  daffodils  lift  high  in  air. 

Alert,  arrayed  for  dress  parade. 
Comes  marching  now  the  bright  brigade 
Triumphant,  proud,  not  one  to  spare 
However  many  may  be  there. 

Of  the  tint  of  skies  where  daylight  dies  ; 
Of  the  faint,  sweet  scent  of  Paradise  ; 
Cool,  up-springing  'mid  pale-green  leaves, 
What  is  this  spell  that  the  March  air  weaves  ? 

Over  the  wold,  whence  frost  and  cold 
Have  gone  from  the  damp,  life-giving  mould. 
Can  you  not  hear  when  winds  are  still, 
The  gay  fanfare  of  the  daffodil  ? 


62          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

"  Sorrow  is  past,"  peals  the  jocund  blast, 
"Joy  with  the  morning  is  come  at  last: 
Stout  we  have  kept  our  hearts  till  now, 
Though  night  was  long  in  the  dark  below. 

"  But  for  a  day  our  brave  array 
Then,  like  a  shadow,  we  pass  away, 
Other  springs  will  have  other  flowers, 
Only  this  little  day  is  ours.- 

"Whither  we  go  we  do  not  know: 
We  are  content  that  it  should  be  so. 
Life  no  briefer  than  Love  may  be, 
And  Love  is  as  long  as  Eternity.- 

"  Safe  in  the  Hand  that  our  beauty  planned, 
Ours  but  to  follow — not  to  command. 
Gladly  we  follow  where  He  wills, 
The  Lord  of  the  Host  of  the  daffodils." 

There  is  no  better  plant  than  this  for  the 
wide  and  poetic  use  which  people  call  naturalis- 
ing, and  there  is  no  better  mission  for  any  plant 
than  to  be  sent  forth  to  do  its  work  and  live 
its  life  in  its  own  way.  A  hillside  sloping  sun- 
wards with  a  partial  shading  of  a  few  trees, 
with  a  little  stream  at  its  foot,  or  a  level  pond 
for  mirror,  is  made  more  than  beautiful  if 
shot  over  with  these  golden  flowers.  A  stretch 
of  orchard  grass,  left  to  itself  until  June  hay  is 
ready  for  the  mower,  is  the  best  possible  home 
for  the  daffodil.  I  have  seen  them  by  the 


MARCH  63 

hundred  about  the  ruins  of  forgotten  home- 
steads, where,  as  in  Dr  Holmes'  pathetic  verse, 
only  the  cellar  and  the  well  are  left  to  speak  of 
the  place  whence  life  and  thought  are  gone 
away.  They  are  at  their  best,  also,  in  a  "  care- 
less orchard  garden  "  and  lose  much  if  planted 
in  rows  and  circles  after  the  manner  of  the 
Philistines.  Since  there  are  so  many  varieties 
and  sub-varieties  of  the  lovely  narcissi  they 
may  be  with  us  for  over  a  month — perhaps  for 
two  months,  beginning  always  with  that  clear 
trumpet  of  pale  yellow  in  which  there  are  green 
shadows  and  frosty  high  lights.  The  scent  is 
like  the  scent  of  no  other  flower,  and  looking 
into  its  heart  one  sees,  perhaps,  as  far  into 
infinity  as  it  is  given  to  man  to  look. 

Wherever  the  Garden  of  Heart's  Desire  may 
lie,  when  March  winds  are  blowing  it  must  be 
rich  with  those  faint  stirrings  of  the  under-heart 
which  show  that  the  year  has  turned  indeed. 
There  are  purplish  shoots  which  tell  where  the 
phlox  will  start  its  upward  way  ;  there  are  pink 
cones  which  show  where  the  peony  roots  are 
bedded.  Before  we  have  had  time  to  look  for 
them,  the  columbines  have  unfurled  two  or 
three  metallic  root  leaves  and  some  of  the 


64          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

hardiest  pinks  are  brightening  up  their  long 
silvery  spears.  There  is  a  pansy  already  in 
the  warmest  corner.  The  chickweed,  hardiest 
of  all  our  native  plants,  rarely  lets  a  fortnight 
pass  without  looking  out  to  see  if  the  world  is 
still  faring  on  in  the  old  way,  and  the  paths 
are  fringed  over  with  the  fairy  laces  of  the 
whitlow  grass. 

Crocus,  as  many  as  may  be,  daffodils,  more 
and  more  and  yet  more.  This  is  my  idea  of  a 
Green  Moon  garden. 


APRIL 


The  swallows  circle,  the  robins  call, 
The  lark's  song  rises,  faints  and  falls: 
The  peach  boughs  blush  with  rosiest  bloom 
Like  ghosts,  in  the  twilight,  pear-trees  loom  : 
The  maples  glow,  and  the  daffodils 
Wear  the  same  hue  that  the  west  sky  fills.- 
The  moon's  young  crescent,  thin  and  bright, 
Shines  in  the  blue  of  the  early  night. 

And  over  all,  through  all,  April  bears 
A  hope  that  laughs  at  Winter's  fearss 


THE   MEADOW 


APRIL 

THE    MOON    OF    PLANTS 

ever  five  letters  compact  into 
another  word  as  sweet  as  April  ?  The 
very  syllables  seem  to  drip  with  freshening 
showers ;  to  glisten  with  sudden,  relenting 
shafts  of  sunlight,  and  to  glow  and  pale  with 
the  rainbows  which  span  the  drifting,  purple 
clouds.  The  songs  of  mating  birds  are  in 
them  ;  the  scents  of  the  quickening  earth  ;  the 
taste  of  spiced  buds  ;  the  touch  of  light  breezes  ; 
the  sights  of  the  infinite  awakenings  and  un- 
foldings  of  the  world  about  us.  For  every 
sense  its  own  delights  ;  for  every  letter  a  thou- 
sand new  sensations  ;  for  every  day  a  new 
heaven  and  a  new  earth. 

When  April  goes  through  the  fields  which 
are  hastily  donning  festal  garments  in  his 
honour,  he  pipes  on  a  magic  flute  which  neither 
young  nor  old,  merry  nor  sad,  grave  nor  gay 
can  withstand.  Feet  that  have  plodded  along 
67 


68          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

aweary  are  eager  now  to  follow  and  to  find. 
After  him,  over  the  vernal  meadows,  and 
through  the  thickening  woods,  troop  the  goodly 
fellowship  of  the  poets  who  have  been  his  joyous 
slaves,  and  one  with  the  perennial  freshness 
of  the  songs  of  his  birds  are  the  haunting 
words  into  which  they  have  tried  to  put  his 
charm.  That  they  could  not  do  so  was  no 
fault  of  theirs.  The  glory  and  the  beauty  of 
April  are  for  the  spirit  and  cannot  be  made 
flesh. 

All  of  the  virtues  praised  by  the  Apostles 
may  be  found  in  an  April  garden,  but  it  is 
chiefly  as  a  Land  of  Promise  that  it  looks  to 
us,  as  the  first  days  come  and  go.  Daffodils 
are  abloom  by  the  hundred,  and  in  many 
varying  shades  of  sun-colour.  There  is  more 
sentiment  connected  with  the  old-fashioned 
yellow  one,  but  there  are  so  many  lovely 
narcissi,  that  the  day  of  this  charming  flower 
may  be  greatly  prolonged  by  planting  in  many 
sorts  together.  I,  myself,  in  happier  days,  had 
a  bed  of  them  which  bloomed  for  six  weeks, 
and  even  that  time  might  have  been  prolonged 
if  I  had  had  some  of  the  bulbs  of  a  dear  old 
double  white  variety  that  used  to  grow  in  old 


APRIL  69 

gardens  here  and  there.  It  cannot  be  forced, 
so  the  florists  do  not  care  for  it,  and  it  will  not 
be  coaxed  or  bribed  into  yielding  any  con- 
siderable number  of  flower  stalks,  but  it  has 
a  richness  of  texture,  and  a  subtlety  of  odour 
which  makes  its  scantily  borne  blossoms  a 
distinct  feature  even  when  the  garden  is  bright 
with  tulips,  and  the  earlier  iris.  I  am  taking 
leave  to  class  all  of  these  delightful  flowers — 
daffodils,  jonquils,  narcissi — under  one  head  ; 
which  saves  trouble ;  takes  them  away  from 
the  unsympathetic  rulings  of  scientific  nomen- 
clature ;  and  puts  them  where  they  (of  all 
flowers)  belong :  in  the  dear  company  of  the 
best-beloved,  who  look  up  and  smile  an  answer 
no  matter  by  what  name  they  are  called. 

Snowdrops  have  begun  to  drowse  a  little, 
but  the  crocus  are  in  their  glory.  If  you  care 
for  a  new  colour  sensation  blend  into  a  heavy 
planting  of  dark  purple  crocus  as  many  blue 
scillas  as  you  can  get.  When  they  open  their 
hearts  to  the  sunbeams  you  will  see  with  your 
inner  vision  the  light  falling  through  old  minster 
windows,  and  you  will  hear,  with  that  subtle 
inner  hearing  which  goes  with  a  sense  of  fair 
colours,  a  deep-toned  organ  playing,  and  the 


70          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

chanting  of  many  voices  in  a  glad  Te  Deum. 
You  will  remember  it  as  I  remember  an  April 
symphony  which  I  saw  long  ago,  and  far  away, 
and  for  an  hour  only.  A  long  oval  bed  was 
bordered  by  that  hardy,  white -wooled  cine- 
raria whose  leaves  start  forth  as  soon  as  the 
snows  are  gone.  Inside  this  border  a  second 
border,  evidently  the  growth  of  many  years, 
since  it  was  so  very  dense,  bore  hundreds  of 
clusters  of  yellow  primroses — schlusselb lumen, 
St  Peter's  keys — and  then  a  central  space  filled 
with  brown  wallflowers,  which  were  orange  in 
some  lights,  and  black  in  some  shadows,  and 
velvet  everywhere.  Beyond  this  stretched  the 
April-grey  valley,  and  the  blue  mountains  which 
lost  themselves  in  the  ineffable  beauty  of  an 
April  sky. 

I  have  said  April-grey  since  I  dared  not  use 
the  word  green  to  describe  that  faint,  undefined 
change  which  comes  over  the  world  which  has 
just  left  March  behind  it.  There  are  yellows 
in  this  grey,  and  there  are  blues,  so  there  must 
be  greens  also ;  but  so  faint  are  they,  so 
ethereal,  that  they  seem  to  be  but  that  allur- 
ing mist  which  hides  the  future,  or  that  gracious 
haze  which  blots  out  the  past.  If  the  outlook 


APRIL  71 

be  wide  enough,  there  must  be  in  it  semitones 
of  brown,  swelling  beechen  buds,  and  russets, 
and  pinks,  and  bronzes,  and  even  crimsons  and 
lilacs  of  other  expanding  scales  ;  but  in  spite 
of  these  I  think  I  am  right  in  the  use  of  the 
adjective  which  is  so  charming  at  the  dawn  of 
a  summer  day,  and  so  dead  and  cold  when  a 
November  night  shuts  down  upon  us. 

The  grass  too  has  a  greyish  tone  unlike  the 
dull  ochre  of  its  March  gown,  since  its  spring- 
ing green  is  feathered  here  and  there  with  the 
first  silvery  panicles  of  its  quiet  blossoming. 
What  an  endless  variety  there  is  to  the  grass ! 
Compared  with  its  soft  blending  of  many  tints 
and  textures  how  crude  are  the  best  greens 
of  man's  compounding !  The  blessed  grass ! 
Mother  ol  all  grains,  nourisher  of  all  life ! 
How  fit  it  is  that  of  whatsoever  we  tire,  we 
never  tire  of  it,  since  that  which  was  the 
softest  playground  for  our  infant  feet  becomes 
the  sweetest,  tenderest  covering  for  our  last 
long  sleep !  Patient,  humble,  working  always 
for  others,  there  is  no  lesson  we  may  not  learn 
from  its  "clear  courage." 

I  should  like  to  have  a  grass  garden.  Think 
of  the  possibilities  of  a  stretch  of  ground  given 


72          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

over  to  it,  and  to  whatever  else  the  wind  cared 
to  add  to  it  by  way  of  seedlings.  The  gentle 
little  silvery  grass  just  spoken  of  should  be 
there ;  the  aristocratic  blue  grass — the  tall, 
soldierly  timothy,  with  its  purple-fringed 
banners ;  the  redtop  in  which  one  sees  a  fore- 
cast of  oak-woods  in  autumn ;  the  foxtails ; 
the  quaking  grasses,  and  many  another  whose 
names  I  do  not  know,  but  of  whose  beauties  I 
am  sure.  To  be  perfect,  this  garden  would 
slope  downward  to  a  marshy  hollow,  where 
wild  rice  and  many  sedges  would  grow,  and 
should  rise  to  a  hill-crest  down  which  winds 
should  race  over  billowing,  golden  wheat,  or 
grey-green  oats.  Maize  would  be  planted  in 
a  field  so  close  at  hand  that  all  the  summer 
would  be  filled  with  the  music  of  its  leaves, 
whisper,  whisper,  whispering ;  and  somewhere 
about  should  be  a  patch  of  broom  corn  and  of 
sorghum  to  show  how  regal  are  the  growths  of 
these  largest  grasses  of  the  temperate  zone. 
Of  grasses  alone  a  most  lovely  garden  could 
be  made,  but  among  them  what  a  succession  of 
other  things  would  give  themselves  permission 
to  grow !  Dandelions  would  be  almost  the 
first  comers,  unbuttoning  their  flat  rosettes  of 


APRIL  73 

dented  leaves  from  the  sod,  and  throwing  out  a 
few  coins  of  that  larger  minting  which  is  the 
true  largesse  of  May.  Clovers  would  follow, 
daisies  would  follow.  Buttercups  would  be 
there,  bindweeds,  milkweeds,  speedwell,  catch- 
fly,  yarrow,  with  mullein,  mints,  each  so 
generously  given,  each  stealing  after  his  fore- 
runner so  silently  and  so  surely  that  we  have 
hardly  time  to  say  "  The  clover  is  here,"  before 
the  clover  has  gone,  and  we  are  crying  "It  is 
yarrow-day !  " 

With  April  in  the  air,  comes  a  passionate 
desire  to  be  in  the  open,  and  to  one  who  is 
village-bred  it  is  to  village  garden  plots  that  he 
would  return.  There,  he  knows,  the  dark  soil 
is  already  turned  up  toward  the  sun  by  that 
first  spading  which,  like  the  sowing  of  seeds, 
and  the  gathering  in  of  harvests,  has  the 
symbolism  of  the  most  elemental  acts.  In  the 
village  streets  householders  are  keeping  a 
holiday  by  burning  the  waste  and  wreckage 
of  last  year.  It  is  almost  a  religious  rite,  the 
making  of  these  vernal  fires.  There  is  a 
special  colour  and  odour  given  off  from  them, 
and  the  man  with  his  rake,  or  the  woman  with 
her  basket  just  emptied  on  the  smoking, 


74          A  WHITE-PAPER  GARDEN 

smouldering   pile,    are    priest    and    priestess, 
all   unknowing.     Blue-birds  are  singing  their 
pretty,  plaintive  notes  as  the  blue  reek  curls 
upward,    and   robins  are   busy  in  the  freshly 
upturned  soil  from  which  the  rubbish  has  been 
taken.     There  are  a  few  clouds  over  the  sun, 
but  there  is  no  wind,  and  the  air  is  warm.    The 
day  for  the  spring  bonfire  is  always  carefully 
chosen  lest  the  flames  spread.     Everything  is 
still  and  sweet,  with  the  wandering  voices  of 
the   blue-birds  to  listen  to,  and  a  handful  of 
ladies'  delights  to  look  at.     It  is  only  in  old 
village  gardens  that  these  brave  and  cheerful 
little  pansykins  grow,  but  there  they  are  always 
abroad  to  overlook  the  April  bonfire.     Modern 
plantings  know  them  not,  and  modern  seeds- 
men have   never  heard   of  them.     They  are 
called  viola  tricolour  in  the  botanies,  and  adv. 
frm.  Eu.  is  placed  after  so  meagre  a  description 
of  them  that  no  one  could  guess  them  to  be  the 
dear,  familiar  friend  to  whom  our  honest  fore- 
fathers gave  so   many  names.     Garden  gate, 
birds'     eye,      three-faces-under-a-hood,      Kit- 
runabout,  come-and-cuddle-me,  come-and-kiss- 
me,  kiss-me-ere-I-rise,  pink  of  my  Joan,  Johnny- 
jump-up,  and  that  astonishing  combination  of 


APRIL  75 

words  "  Meet-her-in-the-entry,  kiss-her-in-the- 
buttery,"  which  Mrs  Earle  assures  us  is  a  name 
only  to  be  excelled  in  singularity  by  the  folk- 
name  of  a  stonecrop,  which  Miss  Jeykll  reports 
"  Welcome  home,  husband,  be  you  ever  so 
drunk."  I  would  like  to  think  that  no  one  but 
Patient  Griselda  ever  grew  stonecrops  ! 

That  the  seedsmen  do  not  list  this  dear  old 
friend  is  no  matter :  it  is  even  better  so,  since 
a  flower  so  intensely  human  ought  not  to  be  sold, 
any  more  than  love  should  be  sold.  It  should 
pass  from  hand  to  hand  between  people  to 
whom  it  is  dear.  Once  received,  it  knows  its 
own,  and  will  camp  down  with  the  utmost 
composure,  and  with  all  the  good  will  in  the 
world  in  precisely  that  corner  in  which  it  is 
most  needed,  and  once  there  will  offer  their 
bright  little  posies  almost  every  day  in  the 
year.  In  1587  Gerarde  wrote  of  them  : 

"  The  floure  is  in  form  and  figure  like  the 
Violet,  and  for  the  most  part  of  the  same  Big- 
ness, of  three  sundry  colours  purple,  yellow, 
white  or  blew,  by  reason  of  the  beauty  and 
braverie  of  which  colours  they  are  very  pleas- 
ing to  the  eye,  for  smel  they  have  little  or 
none."  With  this  statement  I  beg  to  differ 


76          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

with  the  worthy  herbalist,  since  there  are  but 
few  odours  that  are  as  absolutely  fresh  and 
pure  as  that  of  this  little  flower ;  the  violet 
and  primrose  only  having  allied  qualities. 
Tiny  enchanted  princesses,  the  children  of  my 
day  called  them,  and  fancied  out  all  sorts  of 
adventures  for  them  in  the  quiet  old  gardens, 
where  they  sun  themselves  as  they  did  in 
Anne  Hathaway's,  where  young  Will  Shake- 
speare must  have  loved  them.  I  like  to 
believe  that  she  carried  some  of  the  little 
friends  with  her,  when  the  family  moved  to 
the  grand  New  Place,  and  so  tried,  as  women 
will,  to  keep  old  memories  sweet.  And  I 
am  almost  sure  that  the  ladies'  delights  were 

the  pansies 

"freaked  with  jet" 

which  Milton  knew. 

In  a  village  garden  of  the  old  days,  crocus 
were  planted  in  stiff  little  bunches  close  to  the 
southern  walls  of  the  houses,  where  the  eaves 
sheltered  them,  in  a  way,  and  the  radiated 
warmth  of  the  foundation  bricks  urged  them 
into  the  earliest  possible  blooming.  It  is  a 
much  better  fashion  than  the  modern  one  of 
scattering  them  about  the  lawn.  Lawns  have 


APRIL  77 

their  own  work  to  do,  even  on  the  smallest 
grounds,  and  should  rightly  be  a  smooth 
stretch  of  even,  well-clipped  sward  of  blended 
grasses  and  white  clover.  Even  the  presence 
of  the  tiny  Veronica, 

"  The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue," 
or  pink-tipped  English  daisies,  escaped  from 
the  border,  and  lapsed  back  into  single  blessed- 
ness, is  not  to  be  tolerated  ;  while  only  less 
pernicious  than  plantain  is  the  intrusive  little 
ground  ivy,  or  Jill-over-the-ground,  which  is 
in  itself  an  exceedingly  pretty  plant,  with  clean 
round  leaves  and  very  attractive  little  blossoms. 
If  custom  bars  out  these  gay  little  vagrants, 
why  should  it  insist  on  the  tiresome  and  costly 
planting  of  crocus  bulbs,  which,  so  used,  can 
never  have  the  advantage  of  the  close  massing 
in  which  they  show  at  their  best,  and  where 
they  can  mature  their  leaves  and  store  up  food 
against  the  winter  in  a  way  impossible  on  the 
lawn  ?  Nature  abhors  a  spotty  effect.  If  she 
uses  but  one  or  two  specimens  of  a  flower  in 
her  landscape  making,  she  so  blends  it  with  its 
surroundings  as  to  double  its  value,  and  she 
never  dissociates  it  from  the  background  best 
suited  to  it. 


78          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

I  am  very  fond  of  the  long,  narrow  beds 
which  are  always  connected  with  the  village 
garden  ways.  Proper  beds  are  two,  or  at 
most  three  feet  wide,  and  as  long  as  possible, 
with  strips  of  grassy  sod  as  wide  or  wider 
between.  There  is  no  way  in  which  the 
amateur  gardener  can  so  easily  plant,  and  dig, 
and  weed,  and  fertilise,  and  cover  his  pets  as 
in  these  beds  which  can  be  reached  into,  or 
leaned  over  so  comfortably.  In  the  days  of 
front  yards,  which  are  gone  where  so  many 
dear  and  beautiful  things  are  gone,  it  was 
thus  that  the  walk  that  led  from  the  front 
door  to  the  front  gate  was  adorned.  In  them 
grew  the  choicest  bushes  and  plants  pos- 
sessed by  the  ladies,  to  whom  chiefly  the 
flowers  belonged,  and  who  thus  offered  to 
their  guests  the  most  charming  and  delicate 
welcomes  and  farewells.  Larger  shrubs,  and 
hardier,  coarser  flowers  grew  along  the  fences 
dividing  the  yard  from  its  fellows  on  either 
hand,  and  one  has  only  to  be  old  enough 
to  be  able  to  remember  the  days  when 
the  individual  was  not  yet  merged  into  the 
mass,  and  it  was  still  possible  to  express 
oneself,  and  not  be,  of  necessity,  a  copy  of 


APRIL  79 

one's   neighbour    to   remember    those   border 
fences ! 

And  now  that  by  chance  I  have  found 
myself  in  an  old  front  yard,  I  shall  stay  there 
a  bit,  and  shall  make  what  plea  I  may  for  a 
return  to  the  sweet  old  ideals  which  make 
them  possible.  They  belonged  to  the  days 
when  children  arose  from  their  seats  when 
their  elders  entered  the  room,  and  when  even 
big  girls  would  have  blushed  with  shame  at 
the  idea  of  going  about  the  streets  ungloved 
and  unbonneted.  They  were  a  part  of  the 
time  when  reverence  for  sacred  things ;  when 
belief  in  reserve  and  courtesy ;  in  leisure  and 
thoughtfulness ;  in  hospitality  and  unselfishness, 
were  a  part  of  the  common  heritage  :  and  who 
shall  say  that  these  high  things  were  not,  in  a 
way,  dependent  upon  the  fences,  and  upon  the 
gates  which  shut  out  the  world  from  the  de- 
mesne which  belonged  to  the  family  ?  To 
step  into  a  man's  private  grounds  without  the 
preliminary  formality  of  opening  his  gate — 
with  a  clicking  latch  certainly,  and  with  a 
rusty  hinge  perhaps — is  it  not  as  offensive 
to  the  highest  breeding  as  it  would  be  to  call 
him  by  his  Christian  name  ? 


8o          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

The  old  front  yards,  then,  were  always 
sheltered  behind  fences,  and  along  these  was 
planted  a  fringing  of  large  growing  shrubs, 
lilacs  oftenest,  whose  bronze-green  first  leaves 
give  forth  a  scent  as  memorable  as  any  the 
plumy  blossoms  ever  boasted ;  syringas,  as 
they  were  called — Philadelphus,  as  they  are 
listed ;  Japan  quince,  flowery  almond,  straw- 
berry bushes,  spireas,  snowberries, — such  things 
as  these.  They  did  not  form  a  proper  hedge, 
since  after  one  had  passed  one's  first  years 
it  was  easy  to  peep  between  them,  or  above 
them  into  the  yard  beyond,  but  they  served 
the  same  purpose  that  a  veil  of  lace  does  to  a 
lady's  face  :  they  softened  the  features  and  gave 
a  hint  of  reserve  that  was  most  attractive. 
The  choicest  shrubs  stood  on  either  side  of 
the  gate,  and  that  barrier  once  passed  the 
visitor  was  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  whatever 
the  season  had  to  offer ;  since  the  path  to 
the  front  door  was  bordered  by  the  long  beds 
which  have  served  as  a  text  for  this  digression. 
A  list  of  the  flowers  seen  in  an  afternoon 
spent  in  paying  visits  in  the  old  days  would 
have  held  the  name  of  almost  everything 
which  could  endure  the  cold  winters  and 


APRIL  8 1 

withstand  the  late  springs  and  the  hot  sum- 
mers of  the  village  in  which  I  chiefly  knew 
them,  yet  no  two  borders  would  be  alike,  and 
the  tastes  and  opportunities  of  the  owners  of 
the  beds  were  revealed  in  the  most  fascina- 
ting way.  The  experience  of  a  very  few  years 
taught  the  children  just  where  to  go  to  see  the 
flowers  which  they  loved,  and  in  their  eyes  the 
village  ladies  were  important  in  degrees  that 
varied  with  their  success  in  raising  this  flower 
or  that.  Their  charms  and  virtues  were  cata- 
logued in  the  minds  of  the  small  critics  in 
proportion  to  the  generosity  with  which  they 
shared  their  gardens  with  their  little  neigh- 
bours. I  think  that  my  own  mental  collection 
of  old  ladies — a  collection  of  immeasurable 
value  to  me — began  with  opposing  types  of 
front  yard  gardeners,  and  I  am  not  sure  that 
I  have  ever  added  to  it  the  portrait  of  any- 
one who  had  no  taste  in  gardening. 

Looking  backward  the  ideal  garden  seems 
to  me  to  have  been  in  a  front  yard ! 

It  belonged,  as  so  many  did,  to  a  woman 
who  had  never  had  a  child,  and  who  had 
sought  and  found,  in  the  flowers  of  God's 
giving,  the  comfort  other  women  find  in  their 

F 


82          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

children.  I  do  not  know  where  she  came 
from,  nor  who  were  her  kindred.  Where 
rests  the  little  handful  of  dust  which  was 
once  her  tiny,  alert  body  I  know,  but  even 
that  everyone  else  seems  to  have  forgotten, 
since  beside  the  handful  of  pansies  I  take 
there,  once  in  a  while,  no  one  ever  seems  to 
give  a  flower  to  her  who  gave  so  many  to 
others.  I  do  not  know  what  was  in  her 
house,  for  I  never  entered  it,  and  I  have  no 
idea  what  became  of  her  during  the  long  white 
days  that  closed  down  soon  after  the  last  tiny 
pink  and  yellow  chrysanthemums  had  faded 
under  her  windows.  When  she  went  to  the 
Methodist  meeting-house  she  wore  a  black 
silk  gown,  with  a  handsome  lace  shawl  draped 
carefully  over  her  shoulders,  and  she  carried 
a  fringed  parasol  in  her  lace-gloved  hands. 
Always,  I  think,  since  I  do  not  recollect  her 
in  any  other  robes  of  state,  so  she  must  have 
belonged  to  summer ;  and  other  of  my  old 
ladies  I  can  recall  as  having  furs  and  velvet 
pelisses,  and  plumes  in  their  bonnets.  My 
only  communications  with  her  were  the  fervent 
thanks  with  which  I  received  the  bounty  her 
good  hands  held  out  in  answer  to  the  appeal 


APRIL  83 

of  my  eyes  as  I  hung  on  the  pickets  of  her 
fence,  and  watched  her  moving  about  among 
her  flowers.  When  I  have  gardened,  my 
hands  have  been  sights  to  behold,  my  hair 
tosses  in  the  wind,  and  my  face  flushes  sadly. 
When  she  held  her  trowel  in  her  half-gloved 
hands,  no  stain  of  the  earth  ever  touched  her 
little,  white  fingers,  and  the  pretty  crispings 
of  her  hair  were  never  in  the  least  dishevelled. 
Perhaps  her  exquisite  personal  orderliness  was 
the  reason  why  things  grew  for  her  better  than 
they  grew  for  anyone  else,  and  why  spring 
seems  to  have  stayed  for  ever  near  her !  Japan 
quinces  seem  always  to  have  flamed  against 
her  fences,  and  kerrias,  in  her  borders,  per- 
petually tossed  the  golden  balls  of  their  pretty 
pawnshop  where  bees  bartered  song  for  honey. 
Below  them  clusters  of  yellow  English  prim- 
roses alternated  with  plots  of  the  very  whitest, 
doublest,  double  white  daisies  ever  seen.  Be- 
tween these  and  the  rows  of  tall,  late  tulips 
were  mats  of  pansies  of  every  shade  that 
pansies  ever  were  anywhere  —  thousands  of 
pansies,  like  and  yet  unlike  the  gay  little 
ladies'  delights  I  have  been  praising.  Did  I 
say  I  loved  those  better  than  these?  That 


84          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

was  an  hour  ago,  and  an  hour  is  long  for 
April  constancy,  and  here  are  the  pansies 
eager  to  claim  an  allegiance  no  one  can  deny. 
One  of  the  other  old  ladies,  who  had  a  long- 
ago  front  yard,  and  had  also  the  sweet  and 
gentle  fancies  which  must  needs  come  to  all 
who  share  in  the  innocent  joys  of  a  garden, 
said  of  her  pansies  : 

"  I  love  the  little  things  best  of  all.  They 
look  up  into  the  face  of  their  Heavenly  Father 
as  if  they  hadn't  a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of." 

An  appreciation  that  seems  to  me  to  reveal 
the  secret  which  has  made  men  call  them 
heart's-ease.  In  the  coldest  Januarys  the 
blossoms  look  out  from  under  their  purple 
hoods,  and  when  the  latest  November  storm 
has  turned  the  bravest  chrysanthemum  into 
a  bit  of  brown  wreckage,  they  are  still  here 
to  bid  us  be  of  good  courage.  Full  of  mischief 
they  seem  to  be  at  times,  but  full,  sometimes, 
of  a  divine  directness  of  glance  which  makes 
plain  what  was  meant  by  a  poor  outcast  of 
the  slums  to  whom  a  knot  of  white  pansies 
was  once  given.  She  looked  at  them,  and 
with  a  burst  of  tears  she  answered  them  : 

"  I'll  try  ! "  she  said.     "  Indeed  I'll  try ! " 


APRIL  85 

Proper  borders  are  to  be  planted  as  it  were 
antiphonally.  If  a  group  of  Madonna  lilies 
stands  at  the  end  of  the  right-hand  border, 
another  group  must  stand  at  the  left.  There 
must  be  two  clumps  of  bluebells,  not  one,  and 
two  flat  cushions  of  the  grey-green  leaves,  and 
fringed  white  or  rosy  moss-pinks.  Strong 
little  bushes  of  Hermosa  roses  must  be  balanced 
by  more  Hermosas,  and  if  one  is  forced  to 
begin  with  only  two  blades  of  the  small  blue 
iris,  which  is  like  a  baby's  eyes  for  blueness, 
one  must  be  planted  in  each  border,  with  a 
view  to  the  future.  The  iris  are  not  called 
iris  in  a  proper  border,  but  flags,  and  great 
sheaves  of  them  in  royal  blues  and  glacial 
whites  must  grow  along  the  fences  beside  the 
peonies,  the  tall  Greek  valerian,  the  lemon 
lilies  and  the  columbines. 

A  front  yard  is  no  place  for  trees.  Trees 
grow  outside,  in  the  strip  of  clean  grass  be- 
tween the  walk  and  the  roadway,  where  their 
shadows  cannot  harm  the  flowers.  It  is 
always  permitted,  however,  that  a  few  old  apple 
and  pear  trees  stand  about,  for  the  very 
obvious  reason  that  they  are  bouquets  them- 
selves, the  hugest  and  sweetest  imaginable, 


86          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

and  that  under  them  the  violets  love  to  grow, 
and  violets  are  as  much  a  part  of  April  as  the 
sunshine  or  the  rain.  When  one  begins  to 
speak  of  violets  one  loses  all  self-control  and 
becomes  frankly  sentimental,  and  ready  to 
swear  with  Mahomet  that  they  are  "  only 
comparable  with  the  religion  of  Islam."  Of 
them  more  than  of  any  flower  it  may  be 
said  that  "  they  admonish  and  stir  up  a  man 
to  that  which  is  comelie  and  honest,  for  their 
beauty,  varietie  of  colours  and  exquisite  form 
do  bring  to  a  liberal  and  gentlemanlie  mind 
the  remembrance  of  honestie,  comeliness  and 
all  kinds  of  virtue."  Such  is  what  the  old 
herbalist  Gerarde  calls  "the  gallant  grace  of 
violets,"  that  its  colour  gives  name  to  one  of 
the  bands  of  the  rainbow. 

"  Those  seven  listed  colours  whence  the  Sun 
Maketh  his  bow,  and  Cynthia  her  zone." 

The  rainbow  itself  would  be  unimaginable 
but  for  the  thrill  of  that  last,  loveliest,  fleeting 
bar — given  the  last  place,  as  in  a  triumphant 
pageant  the  crowning  glory  is  left  for  the 
vanishing  moment.  In  almost  all  languages 
its  name  is  but  a  variant  of  one  singing  word. 


APRIL  87 

One  with  youth  and  beauty,  one  with  new 
sweet  love,  and  older  sweeter  constancy,  it  is 
the  rival  of  the  rose,  winning  by  one  subtle 
test.  The  blossoms  that  are  folded  away 
where  no  eye  but  your  own  can  see  them — 
what  are  they  ?  Roses  ?  You  know  that  they 
are  violets,  and  that,  however  brown  and  dead 
they  might  seem  to  others,  to  you  they  will 
always  be  fresh  and  fair.  These  are  the  flowers 
we  love  to  think  of  as  lying  on  the  breast  of 
Mary  the  Mother,  and  how  many  a  beloved 
face  has  been  shut  away  from  the  sight  of  all 
living  with  less  anguish  because  it  was  pillowed 
on  these  faithful  hearts. 

Borders  of  them  grew  in  the  yards  I  speak 
of — mats  of  them,  carpets  of  them,  and  never 
one  too  many.  Little  fragrant  white  ones,  for 
April  only,  and  purple  ones  that  rarely  fail  to 
have  a  blossom  or  two  on  hand  except  in  the 
hot  midsummer  days  when  they  are  busy  with 
small,  fertile  blooms,  which  no  one  knows 
about  but  the  bees,  and  with  packing  their 
seeds  into  little  purses  which  shut  and  open 
with  a  spring.  A  royal  flower,  the  violet,  in 
many  ways  besides  its  colour ! 

Beside  these  and  the  roses,  which  came  later, 


88          A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

and  which  sat  apart  in  a  corner  by  themselves, 
the  old  front  yards  were  rich  in  tulips,  which 
were  planted  in  double  rows  against  bunches 
of  white  columbines.  People  either  love  tulips 
passionately  or  they  do  not  care  for  them  at 
all.  They  are  not  flowers  to  be  half-hearted 
about,  any  more  than  they  are  flowers  to  plant 
by  the  dozen.  Dozens  of  hyacinths,  if  you  like 
their  heavy  odour  and  their  stiff,  haughty  stems, 
but  hundreds  of  tulips,  red 

"  Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood," 

pink,  white,  yellow,  orange,  brown,  with  such 
tones  and  semitones  of  colour  that,  borrow- 
ing the  words  from  music,  one  can  almost  hear 
their  loud  triumphant  paean  of  victory  over 
Winter. 

There  was  always  room  near  the  tulips  for 
plenty  of  little  dull-pink  polyanthus,  with  their 
cheerful  April  faces,  and  there  was  always 
a  corner  for  the  wild  flowers  brought  home 
from  woodland  rambles — hepaticas,  blood- 
roots,  dicantras,  trilliums,  windflowers,  sweet 
williams,  larkspurs,  with  perhaps  some  cypre- 
pediums,  the  "moccasin  flower"  of  the  early 
Protestants,  the  "  lady  slipper  "  of  the  Catholic 


APRIL  89 

pioneer.  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  see  so  many 
of  our  native  plants  now  figuring  in  the  cata- 
logues, although  but  a  short  experience  will 
teach  the  average  grower  that  very  many  of 
the  shy,  wild  things  will  not  '  accommodate 
themselves  to  new  conditions.  The  appalling 
waste  of  our  forests  caused  by  the  greed  of 
lumbermen ;  the  devastation  worked  by  fire 
or  by  the  needs  of  settlers  ;  the  cutting  off  of 
water  supplies  ;  the  draining  of  marshes  ;  the 
reclamation  of  sandy  wastes,  and,  alas !  the 
cruel  thoughtlessness  of  flower  hunters — all 
these  are  hurrying  on  the  day  when  Americans 
will  be  forced  to  look  in  the  glossaries 
made  by  the  editors  of  their  time,  of  the 
poets  of  ours,  to  find  out  what  was  meant 
by  Indian  pipes,  or  Quaker  ladies,  or  May- 
flowers. 

Mayflowers !  Of  no  garden  but  that  of 
Nature's  most  thought-filled  planting,  half 
hidden  by  last  year's  fallen  leaves,  neigh- 
boured by  pipsissiwa,  by  crimson-berried 
wintergreen,  or  partridge-berry,  by  curling 
wreaths  and  plumes  of  ground  pine,  it  is  the 
flower  that  made  the  exile  of  our  forefathers 
bearable ;  the  truest  of  all  Americans,  the 


90  A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

freest,  shyest  thing  that  grows.  In  the 
flush  of  its  rosy  cheek,  in  the  absolutely 
individual  sweetness  of  its  fleeting  breath  lie 
all  the  Aprils  that  have  been  or  that  yet 
may  be. 


MAY 


Over  the  pebbles  the  brown  brooks  flow, 
Singing  their  cool  songs,  sweet  and  low : 
From  white-boled  beech,  and  elm  top  tall 
On  lilied  shallows  deep  shades  fall. 
In  swaying  cradles  white  eggs  rest 
Safe  and  warm  'neath  the  brooding  breast; 
Sweetbriar  lifts  her  winsome  face, 
The  brambles  weave  their  lines  of  grace, 
All  joys  are  here,  each  dear  delight, 
And  April's  faith  in  May  is  sight. 


THE    ROSE    GARDEN 


MAY 

THE    MOON    OF    FLOWERS 

T  F  the  five  letters  that  spell  out  the  delights 
of  April  are  enchanted,  what  of  the  three 
that  guard  the  secrets  and  publish  the  joys  of 
the  time  when  "the  year  has  piloted  us  once 
more  into  the  flowery  harbour  of  May  "  ? 

There  is  now  no  longer  any  need  to  wonder 
if  that  be  a  rising  mist  which  veils  the  maples, 

"  Blown  silver  by  the  winds," 

for  the  flowering  of  the  trees  themselves  stand 
confessed,  and  before  this  certainty  has  been 
fairly  grasped,  the  rose-pink  vapour  which  has 
trembled  over  the  oaks  has  been  condensed  into 
the  velvet  foliage  which  tells  the  farmer  that 
corn  planting  time  has  come.  A  solemn  holy- 
day  if  men  would  but  look  at  it  rightly,  when 
the 

"  Son  of  six  thousand  golden  sires  " 

is  dropped  trustfully  into  the  dark  bosom  of 
the  great  Mother,  who  takes  us  all — seed  and 
93 


94          A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

man — with  equal  care  and  carelessness,  into 
her  keeping. 

In  Maytime  the  best  gardens  are  not  gar- 
dens, but  are  orchards,  and  orchards  to  be  the 
best  orchards  are  apple  orchards.  Orange 
and  lemon  groves  are  very  beautiful,  but  they 
are  too  newly  come  among  us  and  are  too 
local  to  touch  the  common  heart.  One  must 
have  a  certain  peculiar  training  to  care  for 
rows  of  peach-trees,  and  it  would,  I  think, 
be  impossible  to  enter  into  very  intimate  rela- 
tions with  them  in  spite  of  the  exceeding 
loveliness  of  their  short  flowering  time. 
Cherries  and  pears  and  plums  are  charming  in 
their  virginal  purity,  but  it  is  to  old  apple-trees 
that  thought  flies  with  unerring  instinct  and 
directness  when  one  thinks  of  an  orchard. 

I  thank  the  tiny  brain-cells  in  which  the 
greater  part  of  my  earthly  possessions  are 
kept,  that  they  hold  so  close  and  so  fast  so 
many  orchard  pictures  that  it  does  not  much 
matter  where  Time  and  Chance  lead  my  body, 
since  I  can  go  back  when  I  will  to  the 

old  familiar  places  and  see This  is  what 

I  see. 

A   place   without   limit,    because    the   eyes 


MAY  95 

which  look  at  it  had  as  yet  no  sense  of  propor- 
tion ;  and  yet  it  was  but  a  little  orchard,  after 
all,  hedged  in  between  a  bit  of  sloping  meadow 
and  an  ancient  wood.  The  meadow  was  an 
ocean,  if  it  chanced  to  be  sown  with  oats, 
rippled  into  waves  by  wandering  breezes.  It 
was  the  field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold  when  wheat 
was  ripening  there.  Armies  encamped  on  it 
what  time  hay  was  drying  in  tiny  cocks,  and  it 
was  a  village  of  Indian  tepees  when  corn 
was  gathered  into  pointed  stocks.  And  so, 
too,  the  wood  was  not  simply  a  little  wood. 
It  was  the  Schwartz-wald ;  it  was  the  forest 
of  Arden  ;  it  was  the  home  of  Robin  Hood 
and  his  merry  men,  the  lair  of  fearsome  giants 
and  trolls,  and  winged  dragons.  It  was  the 
jungle  in  which  wild  beasts  and  painted 
savages  skulked ;  it  was  the  haunt  of  elves 
and  fairies.  Enchanted  castles  were  hidden  in 
its  depths ;  robber  caves  were  shadowed  by  its 
great  trees  ;  and  beautiful  princesses  and 
knights,  without  fear  and  without  reproach, 
wandered  through  its  leafy  glades  by  moon- 
light. 

And  the  garden  through  which  a  pathway 
led  to  the  pear-trees  growing  at  the  orchard's 


96          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

foot!     More  eyes  than  mine  can  see  it,  when 
I  say  of  it  that  it  was 

GRANDMOTHER'S  GARDEN 

"  In  grandmother's  garden  !     The  very  words 
Bring  back  the  carols  of  long-dead  birds : 
Bring  back  the  croonings  of  countless  bees  ; 
Bring  back  the  odour-ladened  breeze 
That  swept  through  the  white-domed  orchard  trees, 
And  the  purple  plumes  that  the  lilacs  bore, 
And  the  sweet  May-roses  beside  the  door. 
The  world  is  old,  and  over  it  still 
The  world-winds  wander  and  range  at  will, 
But  they  cannot  blow,  so  far — so  free 
As  to  find  that  garden  again  for  me  ! 

"In  grandmother's  garden  the  hollyhocks 
Row  upon  row  lifted  wreathed  stalks 
With  bloom  of  purple,  of  pearly  white, 
Of  close-frilled  yellow,  of  crimson  bright. 
In  ruffled  robes  of  satin  dight 
With  pointed  mantles  of  powdered  greens 
What  gay  court  ladies,  what  royal  queens, 
— With  each  a  daisy  for  diadem  ! — 
What  pomps  and  pageants  we  made  of  them 
In  the  sweet,  lost  garden  we  used  to  know 
In  sweet,  lost  years — so  long  ago  ! 

"  In  grandmother's  garden  the  roses  red 
Grew  in  a  long,  straight  garden  bed, 
By  yellow  roses  with  small  close  leaves  ; 
And  yuccas, — we  called  them  Adams-and-Eves  ! — 
Threaded  with  fringes  of  fairy  weaves  ; 
By  marigolds  in  velvet  browns, 
And  heart's-ease  in  their  splendid  gowns  ; 


MAY  97 

Primrose,  waiting  the  twilight  hours. 
Touch-me-nots,  and  gilliflowers. 
Was  it  October  or  June,  or  May 
Grandmother's  garden  was  always  gay. 

"  In  grandmother's  garden  the  iris  blue 
Unfurled  his  banner,  his  snood  leaves  drew 
And  marshalled  the  slim,  red  tulips,  tall, 
The  peony's  bursting  crimson  ball, 
The  almond  wands  and  the  moss-pinks  small, 
Buttercups  spendthrift  of  their  gold, 
Columbines  misers  of  sweets  untold, 
Gay  Sweet  Williams,  and  four-o'-clocks, 
Prodigal  sheaves  of  the  cool  white  phlox  ; 
The  lovely  army  has  long  marched  past 
For  grandmother's  garden  could  not  last: 

1  Grandmother's  garden  !  ah,  who  knows 
In  what  far,  heavenly  land  it  grows  I 
Watched,  perhaps,  by  her  loving  eyes  ; 
Kept  for  us  as  a  glad  surprise 
When  we  shall  reach  her  in  Paradise  ! 
Not  one  missing,  one  tiniest  leaf, 
One  breath  of  fragrance — one  bird-song  brief 
Nor — ah,  God  grant  it  I — one  that  played — 
Lad  true-hearted  or  bright-eyed  maid — 
In  the  shade  the  lilacs  used  to  throw 
In  grandmother's  garden — long  ago  ! " 

And  then  the  apple-trees !  There  was  much 
grass  in  the  place,  and  where  the  still  acres 
dipped  toward  the  wood  many  violets  were 
blue  in  April,  and  early  in  May  turned  down 
the  borders  of  their  caps  to  make  ready  for 


98          A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

the  long  nap  which  should  last  until  another 
April  came  dancing  over  the  fields.  The 
young  browns  and  greens  of  the  forest  trees 
stand  out  in  glad  contrast  to  the  bloom  by 
which  the  peach  boughs  call  the  bees  in  a 
thousand  tones  of  the  colour — which  is  not  blue, 
nor  crimson,  nor  pink,  nor  lilac — but  peach 
blow !  There  are  cherries  and  pears  beyond 
the  garden  gate,  but  of  the  apples  there  were 
aisles  and  tents,  all  heavy  with  blossoms  and 
murmurous  with  bees.  Could  the  body,  uplifted, 
sanctified,  ask  for  a  lordlier  pleasure  house 
than  this  ?  Oh,  to  be  this  night  in  that  true 
Paradise,  that  old  orchard,  where  the  apple- 
trees  are  blooming — and  where  it  is  always 
May  ! — Oh,  to  see  once  more,  and  to  hear  once 
more,  and  to  touch  once  more  that  which 
comes  back,  with  the  single  bough  of  young 
bloom  which  is  all  the  May  bloom  that  is 
mine  ! 

"  Soft  on  thy  lips  I  lay  this  tender  kiss 
My  cheek  I  press  against  thy  breast  of  snow 
Who  bringst  me  back  the  wonder  and  the  bliss 
I  knew  in  an  old  orchard,  long  ago  I  " 

There  can  be  no  task  of  importance  great 
enough  to  be  rightly  bartered  for  one  of  the 


MAY  99 

hours  of  the  apple-blooming  days,  no  duty 
that  might  not  better  be  left  undone  that  this 
little  hour  may  be  garnered  and  treasured  up 
to  a  life  beyond  life  by  the  refreshed  and 
restored  soul.  Under  the  trees  are  the  green 
pastures  of  recreation  ;  beside  them  flow  the 
still  waters  of  purification.  Theirs  are  the 
embroidered  veils  of  the  temple  wherein  count- 
less urns  of  incense  are  swinging.  Only  good 
thoughts  can  dwell  in  an  orchard,  and  only 
with  a  pure  heart  and  clean  hands  might  man 
venture  into  its  sacred  precincts. 

There  are  birds  in  the  orchard.  In  every 
tree  they  have  found  a  home,  coming  back, 
year  after  year,  to  the  pleasant  haunts  of  their 
ancestors,  saying  to  their  nestlings,  no  doubt : 
"  From  time  out  of  mind  this  orchard  has  be- 
longed to  our  family,  and  this  apple-tree  has 
been  our  habitation  from  all  generations.  It 
is  a  great  thing  to  be  a  bird  of  assured  posi- 
tion, and  to  have  a  landed  estate."  They  are 
not  unmindful  of  the  laws  of  reciprocity,  and 
for  their  shelter  pay  such  a  toll  of  song  that 
from  grey  dawn  until  grey  dusk  the  air  is 
thrilling  with  music.  Richard  Jeffries  has 
boasted  that  every  loaf  of  English  bread  had 


ioo        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

been  sung  over  by  an  English  lark,  and  we 
may  say  that  every  apple  eaten  by  the  Christ- 
mas fire  was  cradled  and  ripened  to  melodies 
composed  by  the  Lord  and  Giver  of  Life  Him- 
self, and  was  performed  by  an  orchestra  of 
His  own  choosing. 

So  many  birds!  So  many  nests!  In  that 
rough  mud-and-stick  nursery  on  the  apple 
bough  a  robin  sits  on  five  turquoise-coloured 
eggs,  and  on  that  careless  layer  of  twigs  a 
dove  broods  over  two  white  treasures.  An 
oriole  has  swung  a  horse-hair  hammock  high 
in  the  pear-tree,  and  in  the  hole  in  its  trunk 
a  blue-bird  has  hidden  the  pale,  fitful  opal- 
blue  eggs  which  shall  be  song  and  colour 
and  movement  before  long.  An  old  cap, 
left  hanging  on  a  limb,  by  a  careless  boy, 
is  home  to  the  wren  for  whose  ecstasy  the 
days  are  not  long  enough.  Cat-birds  and 
thrushes  fancy  the  hedges  belong  to  them,  and 
make  very  personal  remarks  about  the  sparrows 
who,  nothing  daunted,  perch  on  the  tip  of  the 
quickset  boughs  and  sing  such  a  song  as  brings 
to  mind  the  loving  exclamation  of  Izaak  Walton : 
"  Lord,  what  music  hast  thou  provided  for  thy 
Saints  in  heaven  when  thou  affordest  bad  men 


MAY  101 

such  music  on  earth !  "  If  there  were  not  so 
many  dear  birds  in  the  lovely  May  world, 
surely  the  sparrows  would  be  dearest  of  all ! 

And  yet,  in  the  thickets,  in  the  grasses,  in 
the  tall  trees,  how  many  shy  feathered  things 
find  refuge.  In  the  fields  the  quails  are 
whistling,  and  in  the  pine-trees  the  grackles  are 
cawing.  The  barns  and  sheds  belong  to  the 
phcebes  and  to  the  swallows.  The  swallows 
are  gay  freebooters,  busy  with  their  own  con- 
cerns from  morning  until  night ;  but  the  little 
phcebes  sit  about  quite  idly,  complaining  with 
their  pretty  little  sorrowful  voices  that  seem  to 
have  nothing  in  common  with  the  riotous 
mirth  of  their  neighbours,  whose  epitha- 
lamiums  are  filling  the  world  with  joy.  Ah, 
there  were  birds  in  plenty  in  the  orchard  that  I 
loved,  and  it  was  because  the  little  brothers 
of  the  air  knew  that  its  master  loved  them, 
that  all  gentle  minnesingers  rested  safely  when 
he  was  near.  What  if  their  presence  meant  a 
scanty  crop  of  cherries,  or  the  loss  of  the 
juiciest  pears  ?  A  single  sparrow  singing  in  the 
hedge  at  dawn  was  worth  all  the  cherries  that 
ever  grew,  and  all  the  pears  that  ever  ripened 
were  but  a  poor  exchange  for  the  evening 


102        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

hymns  of  the  thrushes,  hidden  deep  in  the 
wood.  Because  of  this  fostering  care  the  May 
festivals  there  were  the  finest  in  all  the 
countryside.  Oh,  dear  Master  of  the  Orchard  ! 
now  that  your  many,  many  Mays  have  been 
given  back  to  you,  who  have  gone  on  with  the 
gentle  story  of  your  life  of  love,  and  patience, 
and  all  sweet  brotherliness,  and  pure  delight  in 
all  the  works  of  the  Good  Being  for  token  ; 
now  that  all  your  part  in 

"  The  summer  glory  of  the  hills 
Is  that  your  grave  is  green," 

the  little  friends  are  true  to  you,  and  your 
high  requiem  is  still  chanted  from  your  trees ! 

A  May  garden  must  be  hedged  in  by  lilacs, 
that  we  may  drink  deep  of  the  joy  of  the  season 
which  Dick  Steele  gives  us  leave  to  call  the 
youtherie  of  the  year,  and  for  which  Horace 
Walpole  revived  the  charming  folk-name  lilac- 
tive.  There  are  many  things  of  which  we  can 
never  have  enough,  and  one  of  them  is  the 
lilac.  Lilag,  the  Persians  call  it,  and  it  is 
Oriental  to  the  last  tip  of  the  tossing  plumes 
of  purple  and  white,  and  blue,  and  rose-colour, 
all  blended  in  that  lovely  colour  for  which  we 


MAY  103 

have  no  name  but  the  name  of  the  flower  itself. 
To  read  "The  Arabian  Nights"  properly  one 
must  read  the  stories  where  riot  these  blos- 
soms, which  carry  in  their  scent  all  that  they 
have  to  tell ;  and  where,  lifting  half-conscious 
eyes  from  the  page,  one  can  see  the  butter- 
flies hovering  over  the  blossoms  as  they  hover 
nowhere  else,  palpitating,  wavering,  poising 
drifting ! 

It  is  singular  that  this  flower,  steeped  in 
Eastern  sensuousness,  should  have  been  the 
chosen  one  of  the  Pilgrim  women  of  Puritan 
days,  but  it  is  so.  Whatever  else  they  were 
forced  to  leave  behind  or  to  forego,  they  had 
always  lilacs  springing  up  about  the  doors  of 
the  habitations  in  the  wilderness  to  which  they 
brought  their  longing  thoughts  of  the  homes 
they  would  see  no  more.  Generation  after 
generation,  the  lilacs  have  followed  the  family 
fortunes,  lilacs,  and  sweetbriar  roses  outlining 
the  very  name  of  the  dwellers  in  the  deserted 
houses  beside  which  they  stand  on  faithful 
guard,  until  at  last  there  is  nothing  left  to 
tell  of  the  gentle  souls  who  cared  for  the 
flowers,  but  their  yearly  appeal  for  sympathy. 

Next  after  the  lilac  and  the  sweetbriar,   in 


io4        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

the  homespun  garden,  must  be  the  almond. 
"  Flowery  almond  "  the  country  folks  call  it, 
in  fine  recognition  of  its  lavish  bloom,  "the 
Awakener  "  being  its  name  in  the  Palestine  of 
its  nativity.  Since  I  may  have  all  the  almonds 
I  care  for  in  this  White-paper  Garden,  I  will 
have  them  by  the  score.  They,  too,  belong 
by  right  to  the  meek-eyed  Puritan  women. 
Wherever  they  went,  together  with  the  lilac 
and  the  sweetbriar  rose,  they  carried  the 
Madonna  lily  and  the  almond.  I  wonder  to 
what  subliminal  consciousness  they  appealed, 
since,  surely,  it  was  to  something  quite  outside  of 
their  narrow,  colourless  lives  !  I  wonder  what  ? 
The  charm  of  the  almond  is  unspeakable. 
Nothing  loses  more  by  being  cut  and  carried 
indoors.  Yet  the  impulse  to  do  so  is  all  but 
compelling.  Nothing  gains  less  by  careful 
culture.  The  almond  is  sufficient  to  itself,  and 
its  long  wands,  beset  with  little  pink  roses,  are 
as  lovely  and  as  luxuriant  by  the  doorstone 
of  an  abandoned  house  as  in  a  walled-in  garden. 
Loveliest  of  all  are  these  when  planted  at  the 
orchard's  edge,  and  the  pink  below  reaches  up 
to  the  pink  above  in  a  harmony  of  colour,  and  a 
grace  of  line  that  leaves  nothing  to  be  wished  for. 


MAY  105 

Hundreds  of  tulips  belong  to  my  May 
garden ;  the  late  kinds — left  over,  as  it  were, 
from  the  April  World's  Fair — and  it  must  have 
a  row  of  the  old  favourite  Crown  Imperial.  It 
is  a  stately  plant,  holding  itself  "high  and 
disposedly  "  like  the  dancing  of  good  Queen 
Bess,  and,  to  use  Pet  Marjorie's  phrase,  "  all 
primmed  up  with  majestick  pride"  because  of 
the  pearly  drop  of  nectar  hidden  at  the  base  of 
each  petal.  For  show  only  are  the  dull  red 
and  yellow  things  planted,  as  for  show  only 
we  ask  certain  persons  to  our  dinner  parties 
sometimes,  and  our  receptions  often,  not 
because  they  are  interesting,  or  pretty,  or 
bright,  but  because  of  an  obsession  regarding 
them  which  makes  us  like  to  see  their  names 
in  the  list  of  our  guests  !  Why  ?  A  woman's 
reason — Because ! 

For  love  only  are  the  cowslips  planted,  since 
they  have  no  great  beauty  of  their  own.  It 
were  folly  to  deny  that  their  charm  is  that 
they  were  the  chosen  flower  of  the  greatest  of 
poets.  Were  our  ears  but  fine  enough  perhaps 
we  could  hear  Ariel  singing  as  he  swings  in 
their  freckled  bells,  singing  of  the  good  old 
days  when  fairies  danced  on  the  green,  and 


io6        A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

the  world  was  not  so  old  and  sad  and  wise  as 
the  world  we  know.  It  is  all  very  well  that 
men  have  cast  the  parallax  of  stars,  and  have 
made  electricity  into  a  handmaid,  but  to  see  the 
kindly  little  people  at  play  in  the  moonshine, 
and  to  hear  the  horns  of  elfland  faintly  blowing, 
that  would  be  very  well  also  ! 

Between  my  cowslips  of  many  colours,  little 
clumps  of  dwarf  iris  shall  grow,  and  against 
the  almond  hedge — or  at  least  within  such  near- 
ness to  it  that  they  shall  appear  to  be  close  to 
the  lovely,  bending  pinkness — there  shall  be  a 
long,  long  row  of  flags,  the  royal  banners  of 
the  conquering  sun.  These  shall  be  the  great 
white  Florentines,  or  Germanicas — the  same 
flower  is  accredited  to  both  Italy  and  Germany 
in  various  lists — with  a  thick  planting  of  the 
white  Spanish  iris,  and  some  tall  clusters  of 
single  white  columbines,  to  give  grace  to  the 
stiff  ranks  of  flag  leaves.  Beyond  shall  be 
another  field  of  banners  wherein  shall  be 
planted  standards  of  many  colours  : 

"  Blue  flags,  yellow  flags,  flags  all  freckled, 
Which  will  you  take,  yellow-blue  or  speckled  ? 
Take  which  you  will,  speckled,  blue  or  yellow 
Each  in  its  way  has  not  its  fellows11 


MAY  107 

That  was  Christina  Rossetti's  feeling!  In 
one  of  his  most  intimate  passages  Frederic 
Mistral  tells  us  of  his  own  passion  for  yellow 
iris,  and  one  needs  but  to  turn  the  pages  of  his 
best  loved  books  to  find  how  dear  the  flower 
has  been.  And  the  reason  is  not  far  to  seek. 
The  more  one  studies  it,  the  less  one  knows, 
yet  the  more  completely  one  falls  beneath  its 
spell.  It  seems  to  be  a  condensation  of  water, 
rather  than  a  product  of  the  soil,  and  to  carry 
hints  of  frost  in  its  grey  shadows.  The  mark- 
ings of  its  petals  are  occult ;  the  suggestions 
of  its  stains,  mysterious  ;  the  ermine  of  its 
furring  a  distinction,  and  its  steadfast  loyalty 
to  royal  colours,  purple  and  gold,  and  to 
the  white  of  absolute  unworldliness,  set  it 
apart  as  a  flower  above  flowers. 

Once  fallen  under  the  spell  of  a  single  iris, 
its  lover  is  lost,  and  his  passion  absorbs  him. 
The  great  German  flags,  the  prim  English 
varieties,  the  strange,  broad-petalled  Japanese, 
the  queer  little  Persians,  and  the  delicately  fair 
Spanish  are  all  food  for  an  insatiable  greed  for 
more  varieties  and  yet  more  which  consumes 
him.  Happily  it  needs  no  great  skill  to  grow 
them,  and  they  are  fond  of  pushing  their  crowns 


io8        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

out  of  a  wet,  rich  mould,  but  they  are  not  particu- 
larly averse  to  either  heat  or  cold,  sunlight  or 
shadow.  The  finest  sorts  are  not  very  ex- 
pensive, and  all  over  our  dear  country  are 
marshy  tracts  and  reedy  hollows  in  which  the 
wild  iris  shows  as  lovely  a  flowering  as  any 
Japan  ever  greets  with  a  holiday.  Ferns  and 
tall  grasses  are  the  natural  complement  of  the 
flags,  and  they  are  always  at  their  best  if  they 
can  grow  at  the  foot  of  a  wooded  bank,  with 
even  the  smallest  level  of  clear  water  close 
enough  to  let  them  look  at  their  own  re- 
flections. 

It  is  in  May  that  the  snowballs  hang  out 
their  balls  of  heavy,  greenish-white  sterile 
flowers.  A  rain  is  sure  to  scatter  them  before 
they  have  passed  their  best  days,  and  in  the 
old  days  when  these  Guelder  roses  grew  in 
every  garden  plot  the  country  people  called  it 
the  snowball  rain.  Sometimes  they  speak  of 
a  blackberry  rain  also,  as  a  storm  is  apt  to 
come  about  the  time  that  waysides  and  wood- 
edges  and  old  stone  walls,  and  the  dear, 
delightful  Virginia  rail-fences  (which  nobody 
will  ever  build  again,  and  which  coming 
generations  will  never  see)  are  overgrown 


MAY  109 

with  the  gadding  brambles,  lighted  by  their 
pretty  roselings.  There  is  no  finer  shrub  than 
the  blackberry.  From  the  time  its  strong, 
purple  canes  throw  their  shadows  on  the  snow, 
through  its  days  of  foamy  blossoming,  its 
greening,  reddening,  purpling  fruitage,  until 
the  last  copper-crimson  leaf  is  blown  from  the 
stem,  it  is  distinctly  decorative  and  refined. 
Poor  it  may  be,  and  hard  pressed  to  find  the 
wherewithal  to  fashion  its  raiment  or  to  spread 
its  table,  but  ungraceful,  or  inhospitable,  or 
apologetic  it  never  is,  and  always  it  is  worthy 
of  Whitman's  praise  : 

"  The  running  blackberry  would  adorn  the  parlours  of  Heaven." 

May  is  the  month  of  azalea  bloom,  a  plant 
which  certainly  will  share  with  the  arbutus  the 
fate  of  being  killed  by  its  friends — that  is,  if 
friends  are  ever  those  who  are  ruthless  flower 
gatherers  !  It  is  only  with  regard  to  our  native 
plants  that  I  am  a  high  protectionist,  and  here, 
alas !  my  championship  of  the  cause  avails  it 
nothing !  Men  are  too  busy  with  steel  rails 
and  ship  subsidies,  and  the  things  electricity 
will  do,  and  stocks  and  bonds,  and  other  un- 
satisfying things,  to  think  of  the  beautiful  wild 


no         A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

things  which  are  of  so  much  greater  spiritual 
worth  to  the  commonwealth,  but  which,  having 
no  vote  and  no  lobby,  and  so  no  friends  at 
court,  must  go  the  way  of  all  the  friendless.  In 
a  world  already  overfull  of  societies  for  this  or 
that,  may  there  not  be  yet  room  for  one  which 
will  begin  a  crusade  against  cruelty  to  plants  ? 

The  crab-apples  are  out !  Pink  ?  yellow  ? 
lilac  ?  What  is  the  colour  of  the  life-blood 
which  courses  through  the  veins  of  their  petals 
and  gives  them  their  sacred  fire  ?  From  whence 
comes  their  morning  incense  ? 

And  dogwood  week  is  here  !  Since  we  have 
strayed  from  the  garden  and  the  orchard  into 
the  woods,  where  can  we  go  with  happier  feet 
than  to  the  hillside  whereon  the  dogwoods  are 
spreading  the  level  layers  of  white  bloom  against 
the  red  bud  and  the  yellow  sassafras  ?  Under 
them  hosts  of  birds'-foot  violets  and  pansy  violets 
are  in  bloom,  and  clouds  of  bluets.  There  are 
blue  larkspurs  there  also,  and  white  meadow- 
rue.  What  an  order  is  that  of  the  Ranun- 
culids  that  these  should  be  sisters,  and  how 
much  would  have  been  lost  if  it  had  been  left 
out  on  that  busy  day  of  creation  when  the 
green  things  began  growing!  From  the  peonies 


MAY  1 1 1 

to  the  windflowers,  from  the  monkshoods  to 
the  columbines  and  larkspurs,  down  to  the 
smallest  abortive  buttercup,  what  a  range ! 
Was  there  a  founder  of  the  family  from  whom 
all  these  variants  are  descended  ?  Is  there,  as 
Buffon  dreamed,  a  single  primeval  life-growth, 
or,  as  Faraday  suggested,  a  simple,  all- 
comprehending  element  from  which  all  things 
have  been  evolved  ?  Is  there  one  purpose, 
changing,  changeless,  running  through  all 
being,  and  is  that  which  we  are  pleased  to 
call  a  clod,  one  with  that  which  we  know  as 
spirit  ?  Surely  this  is  the  large  hope  which  we 
hear  in  the  song  of  the  May  birds,  and  in  the 
falling  of  the  May  blossoms  leaf  by  leaf  to  the 
ground. 

"  We  know  in  part,  the  seed  must  rot  to  quicken 
And  one  comes  up  an  oak,  and  one  a  lily, 
The  whole  idea  perfect  in  the  germ* 
But  what  we  are,  and  how  we  are,  and  whyfore 
We  are  the  thing  we  are,  behold !  we  know  not." 


JUNE 


Full-leafed,  in  pride  of  deepest  green 
The  earth  in  the  sunlight  basks  serene. 
Where  linden  blossoms  crowded  cling 
A  thousand  bees  are  murmuring  : 
As  showers  drift  from  the  gladsome  land 
With  a  seven-barred  bow  is  the  rain-cloud  spanned, 
The  wild  rose  yields  her  sweetest  scents 
Where  hay-cocks  pitch  their  fragrant  tents, 
The  longest  day's  too  brief  for  June, 
The  night's  too  short  for  such  a  moon  ! 


THE    ROSE 


JUNE 

THE    HOT    MOON 

T  F  I  were  wise,  or  indeed  if  I  were  but  willing 
to  take  a  common-sense  view  of  my  own 
limitations,  I  would  leave  a  blank  page  in  my 
book,  headed  by  the  name  of  the  first  of  the 
summer  months,  and  would  go  on  my  way 
sure  that  June  means  a  different  thing  for  each 
man  and  woman  who  has  had  Junes  to  remem- 
ber ;  who  has  Junes  to  enjoy,  or  Junes  to  hope 
for  ;  sure,  also,  that  each  one  is  content  with 
his  own  thoughts,  and  has  no  need  of  mine. 
It  is  a  part  of  the  egotism  of  everyone  who 
fancies  that  he  cannot  well  leave  the  world 
before  he  has  written  one  book,  that  he  cannot 
brook  the  thought  of  an  unfilled  page,  and  so, 
when  I  think  of  what  a  garden  might  be,  I 
turn  my  back  on  self-restraint,  and  begin  to 
cover  more  paper  with  raptures. 

It  is   time   to   close  doors.      Think!    there 
will  be  but  thirty  of  these  perfect  days,  and  it 
"5 


n6        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

will  be  a  whole  year  before  there  can  be  any 
more  of  them  !  There  can  be  no  business  in 
life  more  pressing  than  to  wait  in  the  still, 
green  world,  and  to  absorb  the  young  summer 
with  every  breath. 

"Still?"  Again  a  word  is  misapplied,  for 
who  can  call  the  garden  still,  when  from 
earliest,  greying  dawn,  and  the  first  lonely  cry 
of  the  little  fly-catcher,  there  has  been  one 
long,  jubilant  carnival  of  birds  ?  It  is  love  time 
with  them,  and  not  even  what  Dean  Swift 
called  "high  cherrytide"  can  make  them  for- 
getful of  the  patient  mates  brooding  under  the 
leaves,  nor  win  them  from  the  happy  task  of 
lightening  the  world  with  their  songs.  To 
speak  the  names  of  the  birds  is  to  bring  back 
old,  unheard  melodies,  and  to  hear  the  voices 
which  answer  to  the  June  roll-call  is  to  be 
transported  instantly  to  the  Land  of  Pure 
Delight, 

"  Where  everlasting  spring  abides 
And  never  fading  flowers." 

June  is  summer,  but  it  is  spring  as  well,  the 
fortissimo,  as  the  hour  in  which  the  snowdrop 
buds  in  February  is  its  pianissimo. 

It  is  well  that  we   need   not  be  limited  in 


JUNE  117 

space  now  that  June  is  here,  but  that  on  the 
Delectable  Mountains  may  plant  all  that  we 
like,  since  labour  here  is  not  labour  but  delight. 
Against  the  hedge  of  hemlock  which  is  to 
shut  in  my  garden  a  thick  shrubbery  of  rhodo- 
dendrons is  to  be  set.  Not  the  tender,  dis- 
appointing hybrids,  but  the  hardy  Americans, 
grown  in  a  cold  nursery,  and  shipped  to  me 
with  huge  balls  of  earth  bagged  about  their 
roots.  There  is  a  scornful  jest,  that  as  soon 
as  an  American  millionaire  realises  his  wealth, 
he  buys  a  house  and  sends  for  a  car-load  of 
rhododendrons  to  plant  about  it — an  amiable 
weakness,  and  one  for  which  his  sons  .will 
thank  him.  There  is  nothing  finer  than  the 
great  shrubs  climbing  the  rocks  of  the  Blue 
Ridge  ranges,  or  which  lean  over  the  stones 
that  fret  the  cold  mountain  brooks,  to  smile  at 
their  broken  reflections  in  the  hurrying  waters. 
Ferns  grow  about  their  knees,  and  beside  them 
the  laurels  set  fire  to  the  matchless  lamps  of 
their  urn-shaped  bloom,  "  the  ten-tongued 
laurel "  of  Emerson's  love,  whose  "  beaten 
bosses  of  hammered  silver,  beaten  out,  each 
petal,  apparently,  by  the  stamens  instead  of  a 
hammer,"  made  Ruskin  think  of  the  craftsmen 


n8        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

who  beat  out  the  sacred  vessels  of  old  altars. 
The  restraint  and  simplicity  of  line,  and  the 
polished  and  enduring  texture,  of  the  laurel 
leaf  made  it  the  Greek  symbol  for  lasting 
fame ;  and  as  for  the  blossom-balls  it  tosses 
so  lavishly  at  the  feet  of  June,  pink  with  a 
hundred  crimsons,  and  roses,  and  pale  morning 
colours,  white  in  a  dozen  greys  and  blues  and 
greens  and  pearls,  these  are  sights  to  dream 
of  in  long  wakeful  hours  of  pain  and  sorrow, 
and  when  storms  are  abroad  in  the  winter 
midnights. 

If  the  old  doctrines  be  true,  and  I  must 
enter  life  after  life  before  the  final  rest  comes, 
I  hope  that  I  may  be  reborn  into  the  Heath 
family.  Others  are  more  distinguished  ;  others 
more  aristocratic,  others  more  useful,  but  there 
is  that  in  this  Order  that  appeals  to  some  inner 
sense,  giving  it  that  rare  value  which  in  an 
individual  we  call  distinction  or  charm. 
Cassiope  and  Andromeda  are  not  more 
honoured  by  having  their  names  written  high 
in  the  polar  skies  than  in  the  bede-rolls  of 
this  family,  nor  is  the  daughter  of  Priam  and 
Hecuba  elsewhere  more  worthily  celebrated. 
It  was  reward  enough  for  Peter  Kalm  that 


THE  TROUT   BROOK 


JUNE  119 

his  name  has  been  bestowed  upon  the  moun- 
tain laurels ;  and  who  was  Dr  Gauthier  of 
Quebec  that  the  rubies  and  pearls  and  scented 
leavesof  thewintergreen  should  have  beengiven 
him  for  his  own  ?  Over  the  world  it  ranges, 
caring  nothing  for  men,  yielding  little  to  them 
by  way  of  submission  to  cultivation,  but  much 
in  the  way  of  gentle  uses  and  most  to  the  high 
mission  of  adding  to  the  world's  beauty.  No 
praise  can  be  adequate  and  no  loyalty  too 
sincere. 

Against  the  planting  of  the  rhododendrons 
and  Kalmias  I  would  like  to  place  my  peonies, 
a  long,  long  joy,  since  between  the  coming  of 
the  stout  old  "p'iny"  of  our  forefathers'  day 
and  the  latest  Kelway  triumph  of  selection,  at 
least  six  weeks  may  be  counted.  There  is  no 
plant  which  may  be  more  safely  trusted  to  do 
its  duty  in  all  stations  of  life  to  which  it  may 
be  called.  Let  it  alone,  and  for  half-a-century 
it  will  care  for  itself.  Give  it  plenty  of  air,  of 
sunlight,  and  of  water ;  top-dress  it  in  spring 
with  a  good  compost ;  give  it  a  second  dose, 
well  worked  in  about  the  roots,  as  flowering 
time  draws  near,  and  tuck  it  away  for  its 
winter  sleep  under  a  heavy  mulching,  and  it 


120        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

will  repay  you  tenfold  for  your  care.  I  do  not 
know  a  more  satisfactory  plant,  and  I  rejoice 
in  the  attention  bestowed  by  those  whose  efforts 
to  spread  beauty  may  not  be  wholly  unselfish, 
but  who  are  our  benefactors  none  the  less. 
With  the  first  warm  stirrings  of  the  heart  of 
April,  the  peonies  will  pierce  the  soil  with 
their  strong  wedges,  whose  upthrust  tells  of 
a  vigorous  self-knowledge  and  a  masterful 
will.  Then  comes  the  wealth  of  foliage  cut, 
polished,  grey,  olive,  bronze,  which  Miss  Jeykll 
likens  to  the  amalgams  of  Japanese  metal 
workers.  Thus  does  the  peony  prepare  the 
stage  for  the  final  effort  upon  which  its  thoughts 
have  been  fixed  from  the  beginning.  The 
little  buds — such  marvels  of  adjustment  and 
economy  of  space — grow  into  big  hard  balls, 
which  almost  as  a  matter  of  course  must  have 
suggested  some  such  ideas  as  Mr  William 
Coles  wrote  down  in  his  "  Adam  in  Eden,  or 
the  Paradise  of  Plants."  "The  peony,"  he 
says,  "  having  some  signature  and  proportion 
with  the  head  of  man,  having  sutures  and  little 
veins  dispersed  up  and  down  like  unto  those 
which  environ  the  brain,  when  the  flowers  blow, 
they  open  an  outward  little  skin  representing 


JUNE  121 

the  skull,"  the  peony  being,  therefore,  in  the 
symbolic  medicine  of  that  day,  "very  available 
against  falling  sickness." 

In  spite  of  this,  however,  the  peony  is 
eminently  the  flower  of  good  health,  and  there 
are  certain  people  of  whom  I  am  always  re- 
minded by  it ;  people  who  are  delightful  at 
a  dinner  party,  but  from  whose  presence  in 
sickness  or  sorrow  one  shrinks  as  from  a  blow. 
Charming,  well  -  dressed,  graceful,  generous, 
opulent,  the  peony  is  for  robust  health  and 
honest  animal  enjoyment,  not  for  sentiment. 

It  is  for  the  sentiment  that  made  me  plant 
the  dwarf  flags  in  April,  and  the  Florentine 
iris  in  May,  that  I  would  have  as  many  of 
the  late  flowering  iris  as  possible  in  my  June 
garden.  Named  for  the  rainbow,  and  dedi- 
cated to  St  Genevie"ve,  it  is  no  wonder  that 
they  were  the  chosen  emblems  of  kings,  and 
stood  for  courage,  and  chivalry,  and  high  en- 
deavour. They  carry  their  history  in  their 
faces,  and  a  bed  of  them  is  a  battalion  of 
swords  and  a  blazonment  of  many  banners. 
Like  flights  of  Cingalese  or  Brazilian  butterflies ; 
like  wonderful  tropical  orchids,  they  flutter 
in  the  warm  breezes.  No  wonder  that  where 


122         A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

the  shadow  of  Fusi  Yami  falls  into  blue 
water  as  its  white  crown  rises  into  the  blue 
ether,  ladies,  like  fine  netsukis,  walk  with 
hushed  delight  through  the  iris  fields !  No 
wonder  that  plain  country  housewives,  who 
have  little  time  to  care  for  mere  beauty,  still 
cling  loyally  to  the  bunches  of  "blue  flags," 
with  falls  of  royal  purple,  and  wings  of  deli- 
cate azure.  May  is  iris  month ;  but  it  is  in 
June  that  we  must  go  to  the  marshes  planted 
not  for  us,  but  because 

"  Other  eyes  than  ours 
Are  made  to  look  on  flowers, 
Eyes  of  small  birds  and  insects  small, 
The  deep  sun-blushing  rose 
Around  which  the  prickles  close 
Opens  her  bosom  to  them  all, 
The  tiniest  living  thing 
That  soars  on  feathered  wing 
Or  crawls  among  the  long  grass  out  of  sight 
Has  just  as  good  a  right 
To  its  appointed  portion  of  delight 
As  any  king." 

It  is  hemmed  in  by  ferny  thickets  under 
oaks  and  pines,  where  club  mosses  and  part- 
ridge berries  grow,  and  where  there  are  white 
waxen  bells  of  winter-green  and  pipsissiwa. 
Marsh  roses  lean  over  the  peaty,  sedge-green 


JUNE  123 

hollows  where  the  iris  are  blooming.  Tens  of 
thousands  of  them  stand  there  in  the  warm 
sunshine.  Some  of  the  flowers  are  as  deep 
in  colour  as  the  darkest  violets,  some  are  as 
pale  as  the  faintest  harebells.  When  the  wind 
ruffles  the  hollow,  or  when,  after  a  passing 
cloud  is  gone,  the  sun  shines  suddenly  into  it, 
there  is  a  wonderful  joy  of  colour.  Later,  I 
know,  the  fringed  orchids  will  hold  up  tall 
candles  of  white,  or  orange,  or  pale  lilac, 
among  the  heavy-headed  pitcher  plants,  and 
later  still,  among  the  white  boneset  and  purple 
asters  and  marsh  golden  rod,  tall  cardinal 
flowers  will  glow,  and  fringed  gentians  will 
haunt  the  silence  of  the  marsh  edge ;  but  the 
June  iris  day  is  a  day  by  itself. 

In  gardens  now  white  lilies  are  ablow. 
Long  rows  of  them  stand  forth  in  the  virginal 
purity  of  dewy  mornings  as  they  stood  in  the 
garden  of  Mary,  who  held  a  stalk  of  them 
against  her  breast  as  she  bent  her  head  to 
listen  to  the  Angel  of  the  Annunciation.  I 
think  much  about  lilies.  I  do  not  put  my 
thoughts  into  words,  because  I  cannot. 

Yet  even  without  trying  to  set  down  my 
lily-dreams  I  may  try  to  tell  of  an  old  lily 


i24        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

garden  where  the  rich  loam  had  been  light- 
ened by  much  sand,  and  where  the  cold  north 
and  north-east  winds  are  fended  off  by  a 
high  brick  wall.  Creepers  of  all  kinds  grow 
over  these  ancient  barriers,  and  there  had 
been  some  attempts  to  train  fruit-trees  against 
the  comfortable  background.  I  do  not  think 
much  was  gained  in  the  way  of  finer  fruits 
by  this  treatment,  but  the  bees  found  their 
way  early  into  the  garden  for  the  summoning 
peach  blows ;  and  to  have  early  bees  is  a 
great  thing.  There  is  always  some  planting 
of  the  early  flowering  bulbs,  some  daisies  grow 
there,  and  primroses,  and  there  are  always  a 
great  many  things  with  good  smelling  leaves, 
but  the  gala  days  begin  when  the  Madonna 
lilies  begin  to  bud.  Every  third  August  the 
old  plants  are  lifted,  divided  and  replanted  in 
soil  that  has  been  carefully  prepared  with 
much  wood  ashes ;  each  has  a  handful  of 
clean  sand  about  it,  and  so  the  two  long  rows 
which  are  all  that  the  garden  master  allows 
of  this  variety  is  always  in  the  best  possible 
condition  for  flowering.  To  keep  up  the 
stock  he  has  a  little  school  in  one  corner  of 
the  garden,  in  which  young  roots  are  set  to 


JUNE  125 

mature,  being  removed  to  the  ever  lengthen- 
ing rows  when  they  are  old  enough  to  bloom. 

Behind  and  between,  and  before  the 
Madonna  lilies,  many  other  varieties  are  set, 
because,  alas !  even  in  this  June-worthy  spot 
it  cannot  always  be  June !  Clumps  of  the 
white  and  the  rose  coloured  Japan  lilies  grow 
against  the  wall,  and  many,  many  gold-banded 
lilies.  A  few  Harris  lilies  grow  there  also, 
but  not  many,  and  in  the  farthermost  corner 
stand  tall,  red  or  orange  or  salmon  coloured 
lilies,  with  recurved  petals  and  many-flowered 
stalks.  There  is,  however,  an  interval  of 
shrubbery  between  these,  so  that  the  pink 
blossoms  are  not  lessened  in  value  by  the  near- 
ness of  opposing  colours.  A  great  many  ferns 
are  planted  in  this  border,  and  so  are  pale  lilac 
foxgloves  and  larkspurs  in  every  shade  of 
blue,  the  two  plants  growing  together  in  un- 
believable harmony.  They  come  from  another 
nursery  -  bed  where  biennials  and  perennials 
stay  until  transplanting  time,  and  where  so 
many  provisions  are  made  in  case  of  any 
emergency,  that  it  is  never  thought  wise  to 
keep  the  old  plants  in  the  border  after  their 
best  days  are  over.  They  are,  therefore, 


added  to  the  compost  heap  if  they  are  free 
from  defect ;  if  not  they  go  on  the  bonfire,  lest 
blight  or  pest  be  spread  therefrom,  mayhap. 

The  colour  effect  of  the  myriad  of  white  or 
pale  gold  or  deep  pink  lilies,  with  the  infinite 
blues  of  the  larkspur,  and  the  lilacs  of  the 
foxglove  bells,  is  a  thing  beyond  compare. 
After  these  go  to  the  Place  prepared — who 
can  doubt  it? — for  good  and  faithful  plants 
who  have  done  their  duty  lovingly  and  faith- 
fully here,  tall  phlox,  in  white  and  pink  colour- 
ings, which  have  been  growing  unobserved 
among  the  lily  stalks,  come  into  eight  weeks 
of  loveliness.  Once,  when  for  a  time  the  pink 
lilies  were  removed  to  another  part  of  the 
garden,  African  marigolds  took  the  place  of 
the  phlox,  and  Shasta  daisies  made  a  border, 
so  that  the  white  of  the  late-flowering  lilies 
and  the  gold  bands  of  the  auratums  were 
repeated  a  thousand -fold.  In  some  years 
asters  are  bedded  with  the  lilies,  purple  and 
white  asters.  Never  anything  with  a  red 
flower  enters  the  garden ;  never  anything 
that  suggests  a  greenhouse,  or  a  fear  of  early 
frost.  At  the  end  of  the  wall  there  are  four 
or  five  hemlocks,  and  three  white  birches. 


JUNE  127 

This  is  all  of  the  garden  visible  from  the 
porches  or  windows  of  the  house.  It  is  not 
a  rich  man's  garden,  and  it  is  a  small  one, 
but  it  is  perfectly  satisfying. 

Even  in  my  dreams  I  should  be  slow  to 
think  that  I  could  add  to  the  praise  of  the  rose. 
It  speaks  all  languages,  as  Emerson  tells  us, 
and  all  languages  have  spent  themselves  in 
their  homage  to  the  flower  which  has  the 
world's  heart  for  her  own.  Here  and  there 
are  stray  souls  who  cleave  to  other  idols,  but 
to  the  most  of  men  she  is  what  her  name  im- 
plies— the  flower.  Where,  or  how,  this  befell 
we  know  not,  but  we  are  told  that  each  of  the 
Four  Great  Peoples  of  Asia  chose  a  variety  of 
the  rose  as  its  emblem,  and  if  this  be  true,  who 
can  say  but  that  man's  passion  for  this  flower 
may  not  be  a  part  of  that  past  by  which  he  is 
bound  to  his  remotest  ancestors  in  a  thousand 
different  and  unsuspected  ways  ?  The  rose  of 
a  hundred  leaves  was  the  type  chosen  by  the 
Indo-Germanic  stock  from  which  we  are  sprung, 
and  it  is  pleasant  to  think  that  it  is  not  the 
tenderest  personal  association,  not  aesthetic 
delight,  but  a  feeling  far  deeper,  that  makes  the 
heart  stir  at  the  sound  of  her  name.  Each  one 


128         A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

of  us  has  a  list  of  favourite  words  which  we  say 
over  as  a  private  litany  of  our  own.  I,  for  one, 
would  think  but  ill  of  one  from  which  the  name 
of  the  rose  were  left  out. 

High  priest  of  the  goddess — yet  only  a  quiet 
clergyman  in  a  cathedral  close — Dean  Hole 
takes  this  for  the  text  of  one  of  his  garden 
sermons  : 

"  If  a  man  would  have  beautiful  roses  in  his 
garden,  he  must  have  beautiful  roses  in  his 
heart." 

Were  my  purse  but  as  full  as  my  gratitude 
is  deep,  I  should  like  to^  print  and  scatter 
broadcast  the  works  of  this  Dean  of  Roses, 
binding  up  with  them  St  John's  vision  of  the 
New  Jerusalem.  As  a  Tract  for  the  Times 
how  much  they  would  teach  of  patience  and 
contentment  and  gentleness  and  all  sweet 
courtesy  and  brotherliness.  I  would  have 
liked  to  listen  to  the  hymns  and  canticles  of  a 
service  of  his  ordering.  There  would  have 
been  : 

"  By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill 
How  fair  the  lily  grows  ! 
How  sweet  the  breath  beneath  the  hill 
Of  Sharon's  dewy  rose." 


REFLECTIONS 


JUNE  129 

And  the  wonderful  mediaeval  garden  song : 

"  O  Mother,  dear  Jerusalem  ! " 
And  George  Herbert's 

"  Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  brighti" 

And  oh!  so  often!  some  portion  of  St  Bernard's 
hymn  with  its  passionate  refrain, 

"  O  sweet  and  blessed  Country 
The  home  of  God's  elect ! 
O  sweet  and  blessed  Country 
That  eager  hearts  expect ! " 

And  the  text  would,  I  am  sure,  have  been  about 
the  time  of  singing  birds,  and  considering  the 
lilies,  and  so  worth  spending  a  fair  summer 
morning  for. 

How  could  earth  have  satisfied  him  who 
wrote,  "  There  should  be  beds  of  roses,  baskets 
of  roses,  vistas  and  alleys  of  roses.  Now  over- 
head, now  at  our  feet,  they  should  creep  and 
climb.  New  tints,  new  forms,  new  fragrances 
should  greet  us  at  every  turn.  If  I  had  all 
Nottinghamshire  full  of  roses,  I  should  desire 
Derbyshire  for  a  bedding-ground." 

What  could  quench  a  passion  like  that  ?  The 
Tenth  Commandment  must  shrivel  up  before 
such  a  whirlwind  of  desire,  and  yet  who  could 


1 3o        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

call  that  a  sin  which  only  meant  that  there  can 
never  be  roses  enough  in  the  world?  In  fancy 
we  can  conjure  up  the  grassy  alleys  between 
rose  hedges  along  which  are  marshalled 
those  brave  regiments,  each  in  a  uniform  of 
his  own  choosing,  and  bearing  the  proudest 
names.  Personally  I  do  not  care  for  the 
names  by  which  the  roses  are  known  to  the 
cognoscenti,  or  to  the  rosarian,  but  there  is 
something  very  touching  in  the  association  of 
the  name  of  man,  or  woman,  or  place,  with  a 
blossom,  and  it  is  thought  to  be  adding  crown 
to  crown  to  call  a  rose  for  a  queen.  Long  after 
a  warrior  has  fought  his  last  battle  the  rose 
which  bears  his  name  and  title  is  an  ever-living 
medal  of  honour.  Marechal  Niel — what  did  he 
do  ?  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea,  but  I  shall 
be  long  in  forgetting  an  ancient  crepe  myrtle 
leaning  over  a  crumbling  wall  in  a  sleepy,  tide- 
water Virginia  village,  whose  shining  foliage 
was  half  hidden  by  a  pink  mist  of  bloom,  and 
this,  in  turn,  was  forced  to  escape  from  under 
a  wealth  of  the  pale  gold  roses  which  are  called 
by  his  name.  I  have  seen  no  portrait  of 
General  Jaquemenot,  but  there  is  a  bush  in 
a  still  valley  in  Maryland  that  publishes  his 


JUNE  131 

fame  in  a  June  glory  which  makes  a  portrait 
unnecessary.  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  Madame 
Plantier  was  the  most  charming  of  her  sex,  or 
why  is  she  remembered,  year  after  year,  by 
the  flowering  of  the  great,  sweet,  white,  amber- 
hearted  roses  found  in  all  old  gardens  worthy 
of  the  name?  Paul  Neyron  was  hardly  an 
enchanter,  but  from  his  counterfeit  presentment 
in  the  garden  of  gardens  at  Mount  Vernon 
arises  such  an  all-encompassing  cloud  of 
fragrance,  as  passing  into  the  memory,  lives 
there  in  secret  crypts,  whence  it  issues  at  un- 
expected hours,  and  brings  back  the  sun- 
shine that  filters  through  the  trees  upon  the 
greensward  that  lights  the  quiet  river  into 
silvery  reflections,  and  touches  the  far-off  hills 
with  a  benediction  of  peace. 

That  our  forefathers  cared  little  for  rose-names 
even  although  their  homes  were  set  about  by 

"  Sun-flecked  roses  by  the  score 
More  roses  and  yet  more  I " 

we  may  guess  when  we  know  that  the  first 
catalogue  was  made  by  the  rosarian  Rivers, 
in  1831,  and  gave  only  a  modest  list  of  four 
hundred  and  seventy-eight  names.  Even  there 


1 32        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

we  look  in  vain  for  the  musk  rose  of  Shake- 
speare's praising,  nor  can  we  with  certainty 
identify  the  eglantine,  which  Chaucer  and 
Spenser  thought  so  fair.  Perhaps  it  is  better 
that  we  have  no  absolute  knowledge  of  these 
two  roses,  and  we  can  think  into  them  colour 
and  fragrance  such  as  Keats  found  on  the 
Elysian  lawns  where 

"  All  the  daisies  are  rose-scented 
And  the  Rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  the  earth  has  not." 

When  I  think  over  the  rose  gardens  I  have 
known  I  hold  two  in  supreme  regard.  Over 
one,  old  elm-trees  hung  fringing  shadows  lightly 
over  walls  of  box  clipped  so  closely  that  it 
seemed  as  if  the  broad  level  tops  could  easily 
bear  one's  weight  if  one  walked  on  them 
swiftly  down  the  long  alley  which  led  to  the 
sundial  and  so  divided  the  roses  into  two  dis- 
tinct groupings.  Standards  stood  about  on 
picket  duty.  Hybrids  covered  plats  and  formed 
hedges.  Small  plantings  of  Hermosas  gave 
promise  of  perpetual  succession  of  bloom,  and 
glorious  masses  of  tea  roses  lifted  their  delicate 
blossoms  among  the  strong  crimson  and  copper 
foliage  of  their  new  wood.  Prairie  queens, 


JUNE  133 

Baltimore  belles,  seven  sisters,  crimson 
ramblers,  and  a  host  of  climbers  and  trailers 
grew  along  a  sunward  lattice,  and  the  stones 
of  the  wall  which  enclosed  this  paradise 
were  covered  by  Wichurianas,  and  by  the 
hybrid  sweetbriars  which  are  "thrice  crowned, 
in  fragrant  leaf,  tinted  flower  and  glossy 
fruit."  Nothing  else  grew  in  the  garden, 
but  nothing  else  seemed  needed.  The  rose 
sufficed. 

On  the  other  garden  I  came  by  chance.  In 
the  pearly  dawn  of  a  midsummer  morning  when 
the  trees  of  a  rough  bit  of  marshy  country  were 
but  half  awake,  and  the  ferny  pastures  were 
grey  with  the  dews  that  were  as  yet  untroubled 
by  the  sun,  the  single  prairie  roses  were 
blooming.  Robins  were  singing  of  them ; 
song  sparrows  were  giving  thanks  for  them. 
In  thickets,  in  clusters,  in  specimen  plants, 
covered  with  masses  of  blossoms  which 
ranged  in  colour  from  deepest  pink  to  purest 
white,  with  many  tones  of  blue  and  lilac 
shadow,  the  roses  bathed  themselves  in  the 
freshness  of  the  day  which  should  have  been 
set  apart  as  a  state  holiday  that  all  men  every- 
where might  have  leisure  and  opportunity  to 


i34        A   WHITE-PAPER  GARDEN 

see  such  an  intimate  revelation  of  the  divine. 
Only — if  rose  day  had  been  set  apart  by  Act 
of  Congress  it  would  have  been  vulgarised  by 
excursion  trains  and  their  attendant  horrors, 
and  even  the  opalescent  dawn  could  not  have 
thrown  over  the  blossoms  such  a  veil  of 
mystery  and  purity  as  touched  them,  flowering 
in  the  lonely  waste.  The  very  heart  of  the 
blue  summer  weather  beat  softlier  there,  and 
it  was  hard  not  to  believe  that  their  Maker 
had  not  paused  for  an  instant  in  the  vast 
workings  of  everlasting  plans  to  smile  down 
on  the  lovely,  unheeded  things  He  had 
made. 

"  It  is  curious  when  you  come  to  think  of  it 
how  large  a  space  the  rose  idea  occupies  in  the 
world,"  muses  Mrs  Wheeler.  "  It  has  almost 
a  monopoly  of  admiration.  A  mysterious 
something  is  in  its  nature,  a  fascination,  a 
subtle  witchery,  a  hidden  charm  other  flowers 
do  not  possess."  It  certainly  possesses  the 
charm  of  individuality,  since  there  were  never 
two  petals  curved  with  the  same  grace,  and 
never  a  leaf  but  is  pointed  with  a  coquetry  all 
its  own.  Each  thorn  tells  its  own  wilful  tale, 
and  each  wind-rifled  blossom  fallen  on  the  grass 


JUNE  135 

carries  its  own  burden  of  fragrant  sadness. 
Beside  the  poorest  cottage  door  the  rose  will 
bloom  with  every  whit  as  good  a  will  as  by  a 
palace  wall.  It  is  her  divine  simplicity  which 
makes  her  queen  of  hearts. 

In  the  old  gardens  of  the  day  before  our  own 
the  rose  was  at  its  best.  Not  the  varieties 
that  are  the  pride  of  the  florists'  arts  and 
crafts,  but  the  old  free  bloomers  that  old-time 
people  knew  and  loved.  Madame  Plantier  with 
her  lovely  offerings  of  white,  apricot-flushed, 
yellow-stamened  blossoms ;  cabbage  roses, 
oldest  of  types,  since  it  was  the  favourite  of 
the  Rome  of  the  Caesars ;  banksias,  the 
hardy  little  Scotch  roses ;  the  old-fashioned 
yellow  rose,  with  small  leaves  and  few 
petals,  making 

"  Sunshine  in  a  shady  place  " ; 

the  old  Giant  of  Battles  was  there,  and  the 
yet  older  George  the  Fourth,  so  deep  in  colour 
as  to  be  almost  black  ;  the  York  and  Lancaster  ; 
the  broad-petalled,  sweet-breathed  old  June 
rose,  which  overgrows  ragged  lawns  with  its 
sturdy  little  bushes,  and  last  and  best  the  dear, 
dear  damask  rose,  with  its  hundred  leaves. 


136        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

What  a  list !  Yet  where  are  they  now  ?  Even 
the  pot-pourri  in  which  they  lived  a  second 
life,  since 

"  Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweeter  odours  made," 

has  gone  out  of  fashion. 

Still,  in  sheltered  homes  in  byway  villages 
there  are  even  yet  women  who  compound  the 
delicate  blending  of  scents  that  are  treasured 
in  Chinese  jars,  or  old  painted  French  urns, 
and  that  their  secrets  may  not  be  wholly 
forgotten  here  is  a  recipe  of  their  cherishing. 

"  Gather  the  roses  on  a  fair  clear  morning 
after  the  dews  are  dried.  Take  them  into  the 
spare  chamber,  on  the  floor  of  which  fresh 
linen  sheets  have  been  spread.  Crumble  the 
leaves  [petals]  gently  from  the  hearts  of  the 
roses,  and  sprinkle  the  sheets  thickly  with 
them.  Open  the  window  towards  the  sun 
until  evening.  The  next  day  the  leaves  will 
be  so  withered  that  what  filled  two  sheets 
may  now  be  spread  on  one,  and  fresh-gathered 
leaves  may  be  strewed  on  the  empty  spaces. 
On  the  third  morning  the  leaves  will  be  still 
more  dried,  so  that  you  may  gather  up  the 
first  day's  roses  and  place  them  in  an  empty 


JUNE  137 

basket.  Stir  occasionally,  and  every  day  add 
to  them  the  leaves  dried  to  the  proper  texture. 
When  all  are  dried,  prepare  a  bowl  of  sweet 
spices,  which  shall  contain  small  bits  of  dried 
orange  and  lemon  peeling,  sticks  of  cinnamon 
and  buds  of  allspice,  cloves  and  cassia,  bruised. 
Add  a  tonka  bean,  cut  into  fine  shreds,  and 
much  violet-smelling  orrisroot,  grated.  A 
grain  of  musk  is  liked  by  some,  and  amid  so 
many  divine  perfumes  is  not  obtrusive.  Of 
handsful  of  lavender  be  not  sparing,  nor  of  the 
sweet  leaves  of  the  rose  geranium,  and  of  dried 
sprigs  of  citronella  as  much  as  you  may.  Now 
into  your  jars  place  rose  leaves  and  spices 
alternately  until  they  are  lightly  full.  Put  on 
the  covers,  which  are  to  be  removed  when  the 
room  needs  refreshing." 

Can  you  not  see  the  pot-pourri  makers, 
with  their  smoothly  ordered  hair  and  fair  calm 
brows,  and  their  delicate  hands  busy  with  their 
task?  What  gracious  dames,  what  gentle 
spinsters,  thinking  no  evil,  remembering  no 
wrong,  hopeful,  wrapping  the  sorrows  the 
years  have  brought  them  in  a  reticence  that 
was  itself  fragrant  with  the  hoarded  scent  of 
many  roses,  sharing  the  joys  of  their  uneventful 


138        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

life  with  a  cheerfulness  which  was  a  pot-pourri 
of  itself.  To  make  pot-pourri  is,  I  take  it,  a 
test  of  gentle  blood,  and  more  things  are  needed 
than  rose  leaves  and  spices  to  properly  fill  the 
Chinese  jars,  which  the  old-time  ladies  handled 
so  tenderly. 

When  I  die  I  shall  have  gone  through  life 
and  out  of  it  with  a  wish  ungratified — a  wish 
which  has  followed  me  through  all  of  my  con- 
scious years.  It  is  to  have  a  button-rose  for 
my  very  own  :  to  hold  it  in  my  hand,  and  put 
it  in  a  vase — a  glass  vase — and  to  look  at  it 
and  love  it  until  it  begins  to  show  faint  signs  of 
withering,  and  then  to  press  it  in  a  book 
to  keep  for  always.  It  has  been  ages  since  I 
saw  one  of  the  stiff  little  bushes  that  bore  the 
fairy  roses,  and  more  ages  still  since  I  saw  one 
of  the  flat  pinky-crimson  roselets.  I  never 
touched  one.  I  do  not  know  if  they  were 
fragrant,  since  between  the  very  small  person 
which  held  my  eager  soul  in  those  lost  years, 
and  the  scrubby  little  plants,  which  grew  only 
in  one  border  that  I  knew,  there  was  a  great 
gulf  fixed,  which  I  dare  not  think  of  passing. 
On  my  way  to  and  from  school  I  hung  on  the 
picket-fence  which  bordered  the  gulf,  hoping 


JUNE  139 

that  the  mistress  of  the  strip  of  garden  in 
which  the  button-roses  grew  would  come  out 
from  the  prim  house  door  and  break  off  a 
branch  for  me.  The  house  door  never  opened, 
and  the  miracle  never  eventuated.  Once  I 
saw  her  stepping  about  among  her  flower  beds, 
her  skirts  held  forbiddingly  about  her  slender 
figure.  Linen  mitts  covered  her  long  hands, 
and  a  sunbonnet  hid  her  face.  Evidently  she 
did  not  belong  to  the  order  of  old  ladies  whom 
children  of  my  day  ever  ventured  to  address, 
but  as  my  desire  had  never  even  dreamed 
of  fulfilment,  and  as  Opportunity  and  I  had 
never  met  before,  I  choked  back  the  lump  in 
my  throat  in  order  to  be  able — when  the 
expected  moment  arrived  —  to  express  my 
thanks  properly. 

"Now,"  thought  I,  "she  is  going  to  say: 
'Little  girl,  would  you  like  to  have  a  button- 
rose  ? ' " 

A  lifelong  love  and  gratitude  was  ready  for 
her  had  she  but  so  spoken.  No  ;  all  she  said 
was  : 

"  I  do  not  like  to  have  children  hang  on  my 
fence." 

Whereat  I  climbed  down  and  fled.     There 


1 40        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

are  no  fences  now,  they  say,  in  the  village  in 
which  the  button-roses  grew — but  if  they  were 
there,  and  I  were  there,  and  my  ga-den  had  in 
it  only  one  flower,  I  would  offer  it  to  any  little 
child  whose  heart  hunger  for  beautiful  things 
led  it  to  imperil  its  life  on  my  picket-fence  in 
rose  time. 

At  the  end  of  the  garden  which  I  long  for,  a 
gate  in  the  wall  leads  out  into  a  lane  along 
which,  as  evening  draws  on,  slow  lingering 
figures  of  young  men  and  maidens  pass.  Older 
figures  pass  also,  enjoying  the  twilight  in  the 
perfect  confidence  of  long-married  love.  Over 
the  tangled  hedgerows  lush  growths  of  the 
evergreen  honeysuckle,  twin-flowered,  send  out 
clouds  of  perfume  to  mingle  with  the  potent 
sweetness  that  falls  from  the  blooming  wild 
grapes  which  lace  the  wayside  trees  together 
with  a  tapestry  of  wonderful  grace  and  beauty. 
In  all  the  range  of  precious  odours  which  bless 
the  world,  beginning  with  the  violet  and  the 
crab-apple,  there  is  none  that  compare,  with 
their  combined  essences,  and  if,  in  the  alembic 
in  which  they  are  transfused,  there  be  also  the 
dear  drenched  freshness  of  sweetbriar  leaves, 
they  are  mostly  of  the  throbbing  June  dusk,  lit 


JUNE  141 

by  the  evening  star,  and  voiceful  with  songs 

lttr*»   f-nic  • 


like  this  : 


"  Slow  from  the  sunset  sky 
Soft  colours  fade  and  die  ; 
Ashes  of  roses  lie 
On  Day's  grey  altar. 
In  far,  dim  depths  of  blue 
Slow  stars  come  into  view 
— World-old,  but  ever  new — 
Nor  change,  nor  falter, 
Good-night  1 

"  Here  in  the  garden  still 
Waking,  a  late  bird's  trill 
Sets  every  pulse  athrill 
With  June's  own  passion. 
Sweetbriar,  a  country  maid, 
Blushes  in  fragrant  shade 
Of  her  own  heart  afraid 
Wooed  in  such  fashion, 
Good-night ! 

"  Around  the  casement  twines 
Shelter  of  twin  woodbines 
Pale  there  thy  taper  shines, 
Now  it  has  vanished  ! 
In  night's  fields,  slumber  sown, 
Sweet  be  thy  dreams,  my  own; 
Give  me  a  dream  alone — 
All  others  banished ! 
Good-night ! " 


JULY 


Beneath  the  full  midsummer  heat 

Are  stocks  of  golden  garnered  wheat ; 

Are  billows  of  unripe  oats,  grey-green  ; 

Are  armies  of  corn  blades,  trenchant,  keen, 

The  killdeer  flutes  his  mournful  cries 

The  hawk  in  charmed  circle  flies 

Berries  ripen  beneath  the  leaves 

And  warm  and  still  are  the  musky  eves. 

The  moon  shines  bright  in  the  cloudless  sky, 
The  crickets  sing — and  the  night  birds  cry ! 


MAPLES 


JULY 

THE    MOON    OF    THE    DEER 

A  LL    winter    we    long    for   summer.      We 
shut   our   eyes    to    the    beauties    of    the 
snow,   and  of  the  bare    trees,   and  cry   "Oh, 
for  the  time  of  singing  birds ! " 

It  is  not  July  that  we  mean  when  we  speak 
of  summer.  After  we  have  passed  the  years 
when,  as  good  Americans  and  true,  Inde- 
pendence Day,  with  its  lights  and  noises  and 
excitements,  fills  us  with  joy ;  after  we  have 
learned  that  love  of  country  is  a  thing  so  deep, 
so  quiet,  so  sacred  that  it  can  never  be  put 
into  words,  we  do  not  care  for  the  mid- 
summer month,  and  would  be  glad  if  it 
were  possible  to  curtail  it  to  a  February 
shortness.  The  almanac  men  would  have 
done  far  better  had  they  doubled  the  number 
of  the  days  of  April  and  May,  June  and 
October,  and  had  halved  or  even  quartered 
the  allotment  of  some  of  the  other  months. 
K  145 


146        A    WHITE-PAPER    GARDEN 

There  are,  to  be  sure,  July  days  worthy  of 
Emerson's  lines — 

"  Oh,  tenderly  the  haughty  day 
Fills  his  blue  urn  with  fire. 
One  morn  is  in  the  mighty  heaven 
And  one  in  our  desire." 

But  these  do  not  come  every  day,  and,  when 
they  do,  belong  to  the  wide  landscape  and  the 
far  horizon,  not  to  the  garden. 

However,  since  July  is  here,  it  must  have 
such  a  garden  as  it  may.  The  big  brushes 
which  were  put  away  in  January  must  come 
out  again,  and  the  colours  must  be  laid  on  in 
wide  washes.  The  palette  shall  be  set  with 
the  yellows  and  blues  that,  rightly  blended, 
shall  mean  the  greens  I  love.  There  must  be 
plenty  of  cool  greys  and  purples  for  the  shadow, 
and  white  for  the  few  flowers  I  shall  care  to 
plant.  I  do  not  think  a  July  garden  need  care 
for  any  other  flowers  than  white  ones — unless 
I  can  find  a  few  blues  cool  enough  and  distant 
enough  to  suggest  the  far-away  hills  for  which 
the  tired  soul  longs  in  the  days  when  the  heat 
palpitates  as  an  unseen  flame  about  us.  There 
will  certainly  be  none  of  the  yellows  and 
scarlets  of  the  Philistine.  The  world  hardly 


JULY  147 

needed  William  Morris  to  tell  it  that  red 
geraniums  were  invented  solely  to  show  that 
even  a  flower  could  be  hideous,  and,  for  myself, 
I  need  no  warning  but  the  shudder  of  my  own 
soul  to  tell  me  that  the  flare  of  cannas  is  little 
short  of  an  immorality.  There  is  one  other 
flower  from  which  I  shrink  as  from  a  blow, 
and  that  is  the  scarlet  sage — salvia — a  flaunt- 
ing braggart!  It  is  as  impossible  to  evade 
its  insistence  as  it  is  to  avoid  the  sound  of 
a  megaphone.  It  is  the  visible  demon  of  a 
flaunting  commercialism,  the  very  type  of  all 
those  things  from  which  a  sensitive  soul  must 
draw  back.  As  the  Blessed  Damozel  leans  out 
from  the  gold  bar  of  heaven,  it  is  easy  to  fancy 
the  seven  lilies  lying  along  her  arm.  As  our 
thoughts  are  lifted  higher,  it  is  with  no  irrever- 
ence that  we  think  of  Mary  as  the  rose  of 
womanhood.  In  the  green  pastures  and  be- 
side the  still  waters  of  the  Psalmist,  and  in  the 
hymns  of  the  Middle  Ages,  many  and  many 
a  blossom  lifts  up  its  head  and  exhales  the  very 
breath  of  the  Celestial  Country,  but  I  do  not 
think  it  could  enter  the  mind  of  any  man  to 
think  of  finding  salvias  there. 

If  the  paper  garden  needed  space  in  January 


148         A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

that  there  might  be  heavy  plantings  of 
white  pines  to  fend  off  the  north  wind,  how 
much  more  does  it  need  it  now,  that  there  may 
be  shelter  from  the  sun  and  a  playground  for 
such  winds  as  may  be  wandering  about  in 
search  of  a  home  !  It  is  beginning  to  trouble 
me,  this  greed  for  space  which  I  am  developing. 
Once  I  would  have  been  happy  with  a  visible, 
tangible  box  of  honest  black  loam — the 

"  Long  green  box  of  mignonette  " 

which  belonged  to  the  Gardener's  Daughter — 
now  so  insatiate  are  my  desires  that  I  must 
have  a  field  or  two  beyond  my  hedges,  a  river 
beyond  my  fields,  a  hill  beyond  my  river,  and 
above  and  beyond  the  hill  a  wide  stretch  of 
cloudland.  To  such  a  pass  hath  covetise, 
unchecked  and  unabashed,  brought  me ! 

Once  upon  a  time  a  July  and  I  went  hand 
in  hand  through  a  garden.  There  was  no 
one  else  to  share  it  with  us  but  Neglect, 
but  when  Neglect  does  its  best  it  makes  a 
very  fair  under-gardener  to  Mistress  Nature. 
There  was  plenty  of  space  there,  and  plenty 
of  green,  so  with  what  freshening  rain  St 
S within  chose  to  send  us,  and  with  the  air 


JULY  149 

that  flowed  in  from  the  hill  country  beyond, 
there  was  nothing  left  for  the  trees  and  the 
grass  and  the  flowers  to  do  but  to  grow.  I 
took  many  lectures  in  landscape  gardening 
that  year.  I  learned  more  than  one  of  those 
esoteric  mysteries  of  grouping,  of  selection  and 
of  reclamation,  which  are  at  the  root  of  all 
successful  planting,  and  I  had  more  than  one 
lesson  in  the  art  of  the  harmony  due  to  contrast. 
Between  the  unkempt  lawn  and  a  rarely- 
travelled  lane  there  had  once  been  a  fence  with 
some  pretension  to  elegance.  I  imagined  this 
from  the  height  of  the  square  brick  pillars 
standing  in  dignified  decay  along  the  border 
line,  and  covered  to  the  very  crest  of  the  stone 
cups-and-balls  they  bore,  with  gadding  vines 
and  with  mosses.  I  never  saw  the  fence,  and 
the  ironwork  of  the  gates  was  a  matter  of 
guesswork.  Two  or  three  elms  were  left  of 
what  had  once  been  an  avenue ;  there  were  a 
few  ancient  cedars  in  the  corner  where  the 
lane  left  the  forgotten  highroad,  and  a  wilder- 
ness of  white-blossomed  althea  bushes  crowded 
themselves  about  the  grey  knees  of  the  old 
beech-tree  whose  dead  top  was  overhung  with 
Virginia  creepers.  Four  or  five  fountainlike 


150        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

growths  of  Eulalie  grasses  outlined  an   over- 
grown   path    which    led    toward    an    opening 
where  once  had  been  closed  gates.      Some- 
body had  left  these  open  overnight  once  upon 
a   time,    and   a   branch   of  evergreen   honey- 
suckle  had   thrown   a  wandering  arm  across 
one,  while  the  English  ivy  of  the  farther  gate- 
post had  made  haste  to  seize  upon  the  other. 
Nobody  had    taken    the    trouble    to   think  of 
the   gates   since   about   that   time.      Neglect, 
who  had   been  but  a  chance  visitor,   took  a 
permanent  lease  of  the  premises,  and  one  by 
one  the  tendrils  of  the  vines  had  woven  about 
them  a  cordage  far  too  strong  for  any  wind  to 
break,  and  so,  over  these  green  entrances  the 
white,   clustered   roses  ran    riot,   and  made  a 
pretty  strife  with  the  blossoming  grape  vines 
to  see  what  might  be  happening  in  the  lane. 
Against   the   north   wall   of  a   ruined  green- 
house a  long  bank  of   Funkias  spread  their 
green  cordate  leaves,  and  disposed  their  stalks 
of  white,   heavy-scented  blooms.      That  was 
all,  but  it  was  business  enough  for  one  summer 
to  listen  to  the  play  of  the  winds  among  the 
tree  tops  ;  to  study  the  shadows  as  they  came 
and  shifted,  and  stole  away  ;  to  watch  the  slow 


JULY  151 

blossoming  and  fading  of  the  few  flowers,  and 
to  breathe  the  air  that  made  it  worth  while  to 
lengthen  the  day  by  being  in  the  lane  before 
the  dawn  left  it. 

Once,  in  those  languid  days,  I  made  a  little 
list  of  the  people   I  should  like  to  have  share 
my  garden  walks.     For  the  dawn-hour  I  chose 
three — Chaucer  first,  because  of  his  rapturous 
greeting  of  the  daisies ;  Jeffries  next,  because 
the  dayspring  itself  was  his,  to  have  and  to 
share ;  Corot  was  the  third.     Already  he  had 
opened  my  eyes  to  many  things  which  have 
always  been   before  them,  but  which,  but  for 
him,  they  had  been  too  full  of  day  glare  to 
perceive.     In  the  misty  half-hour  before  sun- 
rise what  could  he  not  point  out  to  me  !     How 
cool,  how  vague,  how  silvery  white-and-green 
all    things    would    be !       The    little    leaves, 
refreshed   by   the    stillness   and    darkness   as 
much  as  by  the  dews,  would  offer,  each  one, 
his  pearl  of  dew  to  the  returning  day.     The 
cool  grey   clouds  would   be   reflected   in   the 
water  of  the  pond,  over  which  willows  would 
lean,  and  on  whose  banks,  to  the  singing  of 
half-awakened  birds,  fauns  and  nymphs  would 
have  just  left  off  dancing.     No  haste,  but  all 


152        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

pale,  refreshing  tints  and  peace  and  rest  and 
recreation. 

It  is  only  when  we  have  left  youth  behind 
us  that  we  come  to  a  full  understanding  of  the 
values  of  dawns  and  twilights.  They  linger 
so  much  longer  than  noons  or  midnights,  and 
show  us  so  much  more  that  is  truer  and 
lovelier,  and  so  belong  first  to  the  days  when 
we  have  no  idea  of  proportion,  and  then  to 
those  in  which  we  know  what  it  is.  Youth  is 
to  age  what  the  blossom  is  to  the  tree ;  every- 
body knows  that ;  but  where  would  be  the 
tenderness  of  the  one  without  the  battles  the 
worn  old  bough  has  won  in  its  many  militant 
years  ?  Young  folk  need  that  lovely  connect- 
ing link  with  the  past  which  can  come  only 
from  contact  with  old  people,  as  an  apple 
blossom  needs  the  sap  from  the  old  tree. 
Perhaps  the  trees  have  their  legends  for  their 
children,  and  it  may  be  telling  their  runes  and 
sagas,  when  we  say  the  wind  is  passing  at 
dawn.  At  midday,  in  mid-life,  there  is  no 
time  to  think  of  things  like  these,  but 

"  In  green  old  gardens  hidden  away 
From  sight  of  revel,  or  sound  of  strife," 

the  hours  bring  each  their  lesson. 


JULY  153 

DAWN 

"  The  colours  of  an  opal  faint  and  flush 
On  the  pale  sky,  wherein  one  lambent  star 
Lights  in  the  Hours.     In  the  expectant  hush 
The  low  tide  sobs  against  the  hidden  bar. 

NOON 

"  Dawn  vainly  longs  for,  and  Midnight  regrets, 
And  Sunset  emulates  Noon's  splendid  strife. 
Noon,  overborne  with  restless  toils  and  frets, 
Envies  their  charmed  stillness;     This  is  life. 

SUNSET 

"  'Tis  not  the  dying  Day  that  paints  the  skies 
With  green  and  crimson,  purple  and  pale  gold : 
'Tis  Father  Past,  who  thus  in  state  doth  rise 
Another  son  to  welcome  to  his  fold. 

MIDNIGHT 

"  The  moon  rides  high,  the  skies  are  cold  and  grey, 
The  earth's  asleep  ;  the  waves  are  murmuring  : 
To-morrow,  smiling,  takes  from  Yesterday 
The  worn  old  crown  of  countless  discrowned  kings." 

I  think  I  said  I  should  have  a  white  garden 
for  July.  I  am  sure  it  should  be  planted 
chiefly  with  the  respectable  hardy  sisterhood 
who  are  like  efficient  spinsters  in  their  ability 
to  care  for  themselves,  and  like  notable 
mothers  of  families  in  their  cheerful  endeavour 
to  make  everybody  comfortable.  When  July 


154        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

heat  broods  over  the  world  no  one  has  energy 
for  transplanting  and  coaxing,  and  all  one  is 
able  for  is  a  wholesale  sprinkling  at  evening. 
Even  the  weeds  cease  to  be  the  disgrace  they 
were  in  June,  and  too  often  what  promised  to 
be  a  well-ordered  parterre  becomes  a  tangle 
of   rough    grasses   or    wretched    little   cheese 
mallows,  or  still  more  wretched  purslane.     The 
hardy   plants   do   more    than    all    the    patent 
weeders  or  cultivators  ever  invented  to  solve 
the  problem  of  order  and  neatness.     To  be 
carefully  planted  in  good  soil,  deeply  spaded, 
and  finely  powdered  in  the  fall ;  to  be  covered 
in  by  a  mulching  of  litter  during  the  winter, 
and  to  have  some  bone-meal  dug  about  their 
roots  in  the   spring — these   are    the  few  and 
paltry  attentions  asked  by  the  good  biennials 
and  perennials,  and  surely  these  are  not  ex- 
travagant requirements ! 

In  even  the  limited  space  afforded  by  an 
ordinary  suburban  or  village  garden  plot,  a 
succession  of  white  bloom  may  be  ensured  by 
planting  from  this  list  which  I  have  treasured 
for  ever  so  long  in  my  desk-garden — 

Snowdrops,  crocus,  hyacinths,  narcissi, 
violets,  Star  of  Bethlehem,  tulips,  candy- 


JULY  155 

tuft,  English  daisies,  trilliums,  bloodroots, 
iris — Spanish,  English,  Japanese  and  German 
— lilies-of-the-valley,  columbines,  fraxinellas, 
peonies,  phlox,  Canterbury  bells,  foxgloves, 
Achilleas,  feverfews,  larkspurs,  balsams,  ver- 
benas, Shasta  daisies,  China  asters,  pansies, 
petunias,  mallows,  nicotinas,  hollyhocks,  dahlias, 
anemones  and  chrysanthemums.  Of  this  list 
only  three  are  annuals — balsams,  China  asters, 
petunias  ;  none  ask  for  any  particular  coaxing, 
and  none  are  very  costly.  For  shrubs  and 
small  trees  with  white  flowers  there  are,  beside 
the  roses,  dogwoods,  magnolias,  rhododen- 
drons, lilacs,  fringe-trees,  hawthorns,  spireas, 
Philadelphus,  privet  and  hydrangeas.  For 
climbing  plants,  clematis — the  native  Virgin's 
bower — the  paniculata,  and  some  of  the  broad - 
petalled  hybrids,  the  charming  evergreen 
honeysuckle,  the  morning  glories,  wisteria, 
var  alba,  the  moonflowers,  and  the  sweet 
Madeira  vine. 

The  true  garden  is  a  thing  of  slow  growth, 
and  a  place  in  which  the  individuality  of  its 
owner  is  shown  at  its  best.  Sentiment, 
crushed  down  and  kept  out  of  sight  elsewhere, 
must  here  have  full  play.  The  plant  bought 


156        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

for  money  is  worthless  except  as  a  starting 
point  from  which  many  paths  may  trend  into 
many  ways,  since,  by  the  generosity  of  its 
nature,  it  makes  instant  provision  for  that 
multiplication  which  openly  admonishes  us  to 
share  its  good  with  our  neighbour.  It  repre- 
sents far  less  value,  at  best,  than  the  plant 
given  from  love,  and  this  in  turn  is  only 
higher  in  order  than  that  which  has  been 
acquired  by  that  pleasant  system  of  barter 
known  to  all  diggers  and  delvers  in  the  soil. 
Once  let  this  spirit  of  exchange  enter,  and  it 
becomes  a  passion  to  drive  about  through 
country  byways,  and  to  stroll  along  village 
side  streets,  making  mental  notes  of  the  things 
which  have  learned  to  accept  those  climatic 
conditions  to  which  our  own  treasures  must 
subject  themselves,  and  that  soil  on  which 
they  too  must  feed.  Then,  when  time  is 
ripe,  to  return  with  a  basket  of  the  roots  which 
we  can  spare,  and  of  which  we  have  marked 
our  neighbour's  lack,  and  we  enter  with  a 
proposal  to  drive  a  bargain.  What  kindly, 
friendly  chats  ensue !  What  ready  sympathy 
is  evoked !  What  a  strife  as  to  which  shall 
give,  not  get,  the  more !  How  much  better 


JULY  157 

the  world  is  than  we  had  thought  it,  and  how 
much  good  will  there  is  all  about  us !  With 
what  cordial  glances  we  greet  our  new  friends 
when  next  we  meet  on  the  highroad,  asking 
after  their  garden  as  if  after  their  families. 
Perhaps  we  fall  into  the  habit  of  sending 
them  a  packet  of  pansy  seed  or  an  auratum 
lily  bulb  at  Christmas,  and  perhaps,  when  they 
drive  into  town,  they  bring  us  a  "  taste  of 
their  seckel  pears."  Such  widenings  out  are 
inevitable,  significant  as  well.  The  glorious 
company  of  flower  growers  is  ever  increasing, 
and  for  them  should  be  a  special  clause  in  the 
Te  Deum,  since,  being  of  those  who  make  the 
world  brighter  and  gentler,  more  unselfish, 
more  contented,  more  pure  in  heart,  theirs 
is  surely  a  most  apostolic  ministry  and 
vocation. 

The  very  best  gardens,  from  the  humanist's 
point  of  view,  are  those  unpretentious  little 
ones  which  cuddle  up  close  to  the  eaves  of 
weather-beaten  farmhouses,  and  those  which 
are  hidden  away  along  the  streets  of  those 
blessed  villages  which  have  kept  themselves 
aloof  from  the  seven  devils  of  modernism. 
There  is  rarely  a  master  to  these  small 


158        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

domains,  but  there  is  almost  always  a  mis- 
tress, who  has  lived  long  enough  to  have 
much  treasure  laid  up  in  that  sweet  and  sacred 
place,  wherever  it  may  be,  where  good  pasts 
are  kept  safe  until  "the  day  of  the  restitu- 
tion of  all  things."  Here  are  found  those 
humble  livers  in  content  who  figure  in  no 
nurseryman's  list,  but  which  are  priceless  in 
their  wealth  of  association  —  heirlooms,  as  it 
were,  by  which  she  tells  her  life-story,  and  if 
she  will  but  tell  us  whence  they  came  we  may 
make  a  bede-roll  of  the  friends  she  has  loved 
and  the  places  she  has  visited.  It  is  she 
whom  we  see  in  the  railway  cars  and  on  the 
decks  of  summer-faring  steamboats  with  her 
basket  of  plants,  and  her  little  sheaf  of  slips. 
We  smile,  but  why  ?  Every  slip  will  grow, 
because  it  knows  she  loves  them,  and  every 
root  will  make  haste  to  duplicate  itself  that 
she  may  enjoy  the  privilege  of  giving.  So 
she  passes  through  life  and  out  of  it,  and 
long,  long  afterward  her  name  is  kept  dear 
in  a  way  the  old  hymn-writer  did  not  dream 
of  when  he  said — 

"  The  sweet  remembrance  of  the  just 
Shall  flourish  when  he  sleeps  in  dust." 


JULY  159 

In   these    calm    retreats    live    also    the    old 
flower-names  which  "express  their  relation  to 
humanity,    while    the   scientific    names    are   a 
necessity  for  schoolmen."     Not  every  gardener 
has  the  same  nomenclature.     What  is  larkspur 
in  your  garden  may  be  lark's  heels   in  mine, 
and    Elijah's   chariot   across    the   way.     Your 
monkshood  may  be    my   Cupid's   car,   or  my 
sister's  dumble-dore's  delight.     Forget-me-not 
appeals  beseechingly  to  us  under  half-a-dozen 
guises.     Ragged  robin  and  bachelor's  button 
are  names   borne   by  at  least   twenty  widely 
differing   plants,   and   honeysuckle  and   pinks 
masquerade   under   at   least   as  many.     That 
which  we  are  apt  to  call  cornflower  has,  it  is 
said,  over  fifty  nommes  de  plume,  ranging  from 
the  Old  English  hawdod  to  the  rustic  break- 
your  -  spectacles.      Almost    every    nook    and 
corner  of  the  land  from   whence  our  speech 
came  to  us  has  been  remembered  by  its  home- 
sick children  in  connecting  it  with  some  beloved 
plant,  and  every  holy  season  and  saint  in  the 
calendar    has    its    emblem.     To    "  Our    Lady 
the  Virgin  "  whole  floras  have  been  dedicated 
— Marybuds,   Marygold,   Maidenhair,  Virgin's 
bower,  Dame's  rocket,  Madonna  lilies,  Annun- 


160        A    WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

elation  lilies,  Lady's  tresses,  Lady's  fingers, 
Lady's  slipper,  Lady's  smock,  Lady's  kirtle, 
Lady's  mantle,  Lady's  delight,  and  so  on,  end- 
lessly. In  a  lesser  litany  other  saints  have  their 
flowers,  under  the  leadership  of  St  Genevieve, 
the  patroness  of  all  flowers,  whose  own  emblem 
is  the  iris.  St  Joseph  has  a  lily ;  the  cowslip, 
or  schlusselblumen,  or  keys  of  heaven,  falls 
naturally  to  St  Peter,  while  the  amaryllis  is 
allotted  to  St  James.  The  leek,  as  all  men 
know,  belongs  to  St  David,  as  does  the  rose  to 
St  George,  the  thistle  to  St  Andrew  and  the 
shamrock  to  St  Patrick.  To  St  Agnes  is 
dedicated  the  black  hellebore,  although  lovers 
of  Tennyson  will  always  associate  with  her 
that 

"  First  snowdrop  of  the  year  " 

which  lay  on  the  breast  of  the  nun,  who  under 
St  Agnes'  moon  prayed  for  the  purity  of  its 
snows.  To  St  Gregory  belong  the  daffodils, 
which  used  to  be  locally  called  Gregories,  from 
their  punctual  flowering  on  that  saint's  day, 
the  twelfth  of  March.  Wherein  lay  the  sym- 
pathy that  gave  St  Dominic  the  harebell  for 
his  own  and  who  was  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  who  chose  the  lily-of-the-valley, 


tiD^,    ^ 


'» 

'•* 


THE   MEDITATIVE   WALK 


JULY  161 

which  had  for  an  alias,  once  upon  a  time,  the 
dainty  name  of  liricon  fancy  ?  The  Canterbury 
bells  were  dear  to  Thomas  a  Becket,  and  in 
the  Sweet  Williams, 

"  With  their  homely,  cottage  smell," 

we  see  the  saintly  William  of  Rochester. 

The  birth    of  Our   Lord  is  commemorated 
by  the  Christmas  rose  and  the  flowering  of 
that    Glastonbury   thorn    which    was    said    to 
have  been  the  miraculous  springing  into  life 
of  the  pilgrim   staff  which   guided  Joseph  of 
Arimathea  to   England.     The  Star   of  Beth- 
lehem is  the  flower  of  the  Epiphany  season,  and 
Lenten  days  are  daffodils  and  narcissi,  by  their 
old  name  Laus  tibi.     A  green  hellebore,  with 
its   German   name  corrupted  into  Krichblum, 
grows  in  a  few  out-of-the-world  corners,  and  is 
called  a  Lenten  flower.     For  Palm  Sunday  the 
young  shoots  of  willow  called   sallows    were 
formerly  much  used,  together  with  the  wood- 
sorrel,    which    Gerarde    called    Alleluias.     At 
Easter,  nowadays,  everything  that  hath  breath 
joins  in  praise,  but  formerly  the  ranunculus  or 
Pasque  flower  was   given  and   received  as  a 
token.     Pentecost  has  the   Guelder  rose  and 
the  azalea ;  pinxter  flower  or  pfingsten.     At 


1 62        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

Trinity-tide  the  shamrock  and  the  viola  tri- 
colour set  forth  the  proper  lessons.  Birds, 
beasts,  fishes  ;  mythology,  history,  geography  ; 
the  virtues  and  vices — what  have  not  been  linked 
to  the  flowers?  From  what  far  sources  have 
come  the  names  dear  and  familiar  to  us ;  how 
in  our  English  speech  we  have  kept  but  one 
from  Celtic  days,  maple  ;  and  two,  hawthorn 
and  groundsel,  from  Anglo-Saxon  ;  what  we 
have  adopted  from  the  Indians  who  lived  here 
before  us — all  these  belong  to  a  subject  too 
difficult  to  engage  us  on  a  July  day. 

If  one  must  have  colours  in  July,  there  be 
colours  ready  to  his  hand — unless  one  be  of 
the  disagreeable  brotherhood  who  are  not  con- 
tent to  wait  until  proper  seasons  arrive,  and 
who  plant  sweetpeas  in  March  or,  worse  yet, 
in  October,  that  they  may  come  earlier  than 
anyone  else's.  Sweetpeas  should  be  in  their 
glory  in  early  July.  Deep  planting,  careful 
stirrings  of  the  earth  about  the  tender  stems, 
early  opportunity  to  climb  the  cotton  nettings 
— which  are  far  better  than  the  wire  ones,  on 
which  the  stalks  are  often  scorched — plenty  of 
water,  and  most  assiduous  cutting,  never 
plucking,  of  the  blossoms — these  are  the  re- 


JULY  163 

quirements  of  sweetpea  culture.  It  has  gotten 
to  be  a  florists'  flower  now,  more's  the  pity ! 
They  are  forced  for  Easter  weddings,  and  they 
are  "improved"  until  only  the  scent  remains. 
Twisted,  curled,  they  are  said  to  "look  like 
orchids,"  as  the  last  triumph  of  the  special 
breeds.  Why  should  a  sweetpea  look  like 
an  orchid  ?  Why  not  let  the  orchid  look 
like  itself,  and  leave  to  the  peas  their 
own  delicate  butterfly  graces  ?  Was  not  that 
flower  already  good  enough  of  which  Keats 
said  : 

"  Here  are  sweetpeas,  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings." 

A  proper  sweetpea  should  have  a  wide 
flaring,  and  daintly  cloven  standard,  self- 
coloured.  Its  wings  should  be  broad,  well 
curved  at  base,  and  curved  gently  to  meet  the 
stout  keel.  Three  flowers  only  should  be 
grown  on  one  stalk,  When  cut — and  they  are 
eminently  a  flower  for  cutting — there  should 
be  cut  with  them  a  few  tips  of  their  own  foliage. 
No  other  green  should  ever  come  near  the 
blossoms,  which  are  like  the  dawn  for  purity  of 


164        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

colour,  and   like   nothing   but   themselves  for 
deliciousness  of  scent. 

Phlox,  with  what  Maeterlinck  calls  its 
loud  laughter,  is  an  invaluable  July  plant. 
Its  story  is  so  short ;  it  is  such  a  little  while 
ago  that  the  reddish-purple  phlox  of  our 
swampy  glades  began  to  respond  to  the  culti- 
vator, that  it  seems  a  type  of  certain  dominant 
influences  which  we  dare  not  decry  since  we 
owe  too  much  to  them.  For  eight  weeks, 
perhaps  for  ten,  sometimes  for  twelve,  we  can 
rely  upon  the  phlox  to  keep  the  garden  gay, 
a  virtue  it  shares  with  almost  no  other  plant. 
The  snapdragon,  with  its  gorgeous  wayward 
colours,  is  another  midsummer  darling,  most 
trustworthy  in  every  regard,  and  the  poppy 
makes  a  third  to  this  admirable  trio.  Mrs 
Earle  heads  one  of  her  chapters,  which  are  the 
delight  and  despair  of  every  garden  writer, 
"Joan  Silverpin,"  a  pretty  and  provoking  name, 
which,  however,  lacks  all  that  the  older  word 
poppy  means  to  us.  There  is  something 
heavy-headed  and  drowsy  in  the  word,  which 
suggests  the  languid  grace  of  the  stems,  the 
drooping  of  the  sleepy  buds  and  the  sensuous 
charm  of  the  silken  blossom.  A  long,  long 


JULY  165 

train  of  beautiful  thoughts  which  men  have 
had  about  this  mysterious  flower,  with  its 
poisonous  heart,  and  its  sunny  face,  come 
singing  by,  and  we  repeat  its  name,  and  it 
needs  all  of  its  colour  and  all  of  its  life  to  rouse 
us  from  the  dreams  which  will  but  barely  end 
when  the  wind  rifles  the  drifting  cloud  of 
poppies  and,  white  or  scarlet  or  pink  or  pale 
silver,  the  last  crinkled,  crispy  satin  petal  falls 
from  the  stalk.  With  the  passing  of  the  poppy, 
July  is  gone. 


AUGUST 


Over  the  blue  sea  broods  the  heat ; 
In  faintest  pulses  the  tired  tides  beat ; 
Over  the  sands,  with  the  sun  aglow 
Silent,  the  cloud-shades  come  and  go  : 
A  white-winged  sail  on  the  water  gleams  ; 
Faint  and  far  like  a  Ship  o'  Dreams. 
The  Year's  great  Sabbath  fills  the  air 
And  slumber  and  languor  are  everywhere 

Then  storm  winds  rise,  then  breakers  roar 
Then  wrecks  are  tossed  on  rocky  shore. 


AUGUST 

THE  STURGEON'S  MOON 

A  /T  ONTHS  are  said  to  have  their  comple- 
ments  in  precious  stones,  why  have  they 
not  also  their  representative  colours  ?  It  would 
seem  as  if  Nature  had  arranged  for  the  dwellers 
in  temperate  climes  a  delicate  chromatoscope 
in  which  we  may  read  the  passing  of  seasons, 
as  we  tell  them  by  the  wheeling  constellations 
of  the  Zodiac.  In  January  there  is  the  white 
of  the  snows,  and  in  February  the  bronzes  of 
certain  leaf  buds,  or  the  ochres  of  stubble  fields. 
In  March  we  look  up,  not  down,  and  we  see 
the  blue  of  the  sky  filled  with  prophetic  gleams. 
In  April  the  colour  of  the  first  violet  is  the  only 
wear,  and  for  May  that  wonderful  symphony 
of  pink  that  means  that  the  true  bud-break 
of  the  year  has  come.  June  means  roses  ;  July 
lilies.  In  August  we  long  for  the  green  of 
grass  and  of  sheltering  trees,  and  in  September 
the  yellows  of  countless  blossomings  speak  for 
169 


1 70        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

themselves.  October  means  crimson,  and 
November?  I  think  November  means  the 
deep  green  of  pines,  forgotten  in  the  heyday 
of  the  summer's  splendour,  but  steadfast  and 
true,  a  gracious,  benignant  presence  to  which 
we  may  return,  forgiven  prodigals,  sure  of  the 
pardon  of  which  we  are  not  worthy.  Scarlet, 
the  colour  of  Christmas,  ends  the  list. 

For  August,  therefore,  I  choose  green  for 
my  garden,  which  shall  be  a  formal  garden, 
and  have  in  it  the  four  things  Sir  William 
Temple  declares  "necessary  to  be  provided. 
Floures,  fruit,  shade,  and  water,"  and  in  it, 
to  quote  the  good  man  once  more,  I  will 
"  shote  strong  and  tenacious  roots."  I  will  have 
caught  hold  of  the  earth,  to  use  a  gardener's 
phrase,  and  neither  my  friends  nor  my  enemies 
will  find  it  an  easy  matter  to  transplant  me. 
What  has  indoors,  anywhere,  to  offer  in 
August  ? 

Formal  gardening  is,  I  take  it,  the  desire  of 
man  to  infuse  somewhat  of  his  own  personality 
into  the  growth  and  disposition  of  trees  and 
plants.  The  old  story  of  the  hanging  gardens 
of  Babylon  as  having  been  the  gift  of  a  royal 
husband  to  a  much-loved  wife  who  longed  for 


AUGUST  171 

the  hill-country  of  her  childhood,  and  who,  in 
the  pleasaunces  upreared  on  vast  bases  of 
masonry  found  a  symbol  of  the  land  she  had  left, 
is  most  significant.  In  it  lies  the  germ  of  all 
gardening.  The  water  that  plunges  into  the 
basin  of  many  a  fountain,  in  many  a  classic 
land,  does  not  attempt  to  do  more  than  suggest 
the  wild  leap  of  down-rushing  mountain  tor- 
rents. The  long  channels  of  pure  water  led 
through  Spanish  pleasure-grounds,  lulling  the 
senses  by  their  gentle  flowing,  wooing  the  birds 
by  their  cool  sparkle,  and  nourishing  the  life 
of  the  oranges  and  myrtles  that  lean  over 
them,  are  no  counterfeit  of  the  untamed  rivers 
that  carve  their  way  through  hills  and  valleys, 
but  a  frank  adaptation  of  their  spirit.  A  foun- 
tain, upspringing,  downfalling,  rainbow-tinted, 
musical,  does  not  exist  anywhere  in  nature,  but 
responds  to  some  human  desire,  or  it  had  never 
been  possible.  Clipped  trees  and  hedges 
whose  growth  have  been  restricted  and  thwarted 
until  they  are  like  the  fantasies  of  Hamlet's 
disordered  vision  :  deciduous  trees — coaxed 
into  unnatural  habits  of  rounded  heads  or 
pendulous  branchings — these  are  of  that  art 
which  Goethe  calls  nature  passed  through  the 


172        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

alembic  of  man.  Not  for  alway  nor  for  every- 
where, but  for  sometimes  and  for  some  places, 
is  the  formal  garden.  And  August  is  surely 
the  time. 

For  such  gardens  flowers  are  not  wholly 
necessary,  they  are  a  by-product,  the  chief 
requisite  being  much  green — grass  first,  as 
furnishing  the  background  upon  which  the 
picture  must  be  painted  ;  the  key  to  which  the 
harmony  must  be  set. 

There  can  never  be  grass  enough  anywhere. 
In  one  or  another  of  its  forms  it  is  certainly 
the  highest  achievement  of  vegetable  life. 
Divinest  of  givers — like  man  in  its  little  day, 
like  God  in  its  loving  service — the  common 
grass  is  the  truest  comforter  to  broken  hearts, 
the  most  effective  teacher  of  patience,  and 
cheerfulness,  and  humility,  and  self-forgetful- 
ness.  Under  its  safe  shelter  we  leave  our 
heart's  dearest :  to  its  faithful  care  we  creep, 
ourselves,  at  the  last.  I  should  like  to  think 
that  some  time  I  should  not  be  covered  by 
grass,  but  should  be  grass,  and  that  this  body, 
which  after  its  poor  best  has  served  me  so 
long,  should,  by  sweet,  natural  processes,  be 
quickly  restored  to  that  from  which  it  came, 


AUGUST  173 

and  that  my  hands  and  my  eyes  might  live 
again  in  the  breathing,  happy  leaves,  on  which 
the  dews  should  sparkle,  and  from  which  the 
spider's  web  should  float  in  glistening  silver  and 
which  should  be  white  with  rime  at  frost-tide. 

There  are  to  be  beech-trees  in  the  open 
glade  beyond  the  clipped  hedges,  their  grey 
boles  so  flecked  with  lichens  that  they  are  a 
part  of  that  green  which  makes  the  beech  the 
coolest  and  most  companionable  of  summer 
trees.  He  is  to  be  pitied  to  whom  August 
brings  no  memories — if  it  brings  no  sight — of 
the  fluttering  garments  of  great  beeches,  half- 
revealing  and  half-hiding  the  slender  grace  of 
their  delicate  limbs.  For  grow  they  ever  so 
great,  and  live  they  ever  so  long,  there  is  a 
perpetual  youth  about  them,  and  a  most 
charming  coquetry  for  ever  animates  their 
boughs.  It  is  among  beech-trees  that  one 
hears  in  late  August  evenings  an  occasional 
bell-tone  from  a  hidden  wood-thrush  into  which 
"the  soul  of  a  year's  music  is  distilled  into  a 
few  drops  of  sound."  It  is  in  beechen  shade 
that  a  certain  shy  little  flycatcher  sings  his 
delicious  strain,  so  far  away,  so  near  at  hand, 
as  if  he  were  singing  to  himself  in  a  pure 


174        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

joy   of    being,    and    in    loving   praise   of    the 
trees. 

The  outer  hedge  should  be  of  arbor  vita, 
tall,  old,  and  heavy  with  the  masses  of  tiny 
cones  which  hang  over  the  fruiting  trees  like 
mantles  of  richest  embroidery.  I  do  not  know 
why  it  should  suggest  gorgeous  priestly  vest- 
ments, but  it  does.  Perhaps  the  aromatic 
fragrance  that  envelops  the  tree  like  an  un- 
seen cloud  of  incense  creates  the  illusion.  It 
is,  indeed,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  effects  to  be 
imagined,  and,  as  arbor  vita  is  neither  costly 
to  buy  nor  hard  to  grow,  it  is  nothing  less  than 
a  shame  that  we  are  so  poor  in  the  hedges 
it  makes.  Not  a  low  hedge,  but  a  high, 
strong  barrier,  through  which  we  may,  if  there 
is  anything  worth  looking  at  beyond,  cut  an 
archway  here  and  there  for  a  vista.  Not 
many  plants  care  for  the  close  proximity  of 
such  a  hedge,  but  within  a  reasonable  dis- 
tance grass  will  grow,  and  hemlocks  or  cedars 
or  yews,  or  retinosporas  may  be  set,  either 
for  clipping  or  for  specimen  growths.  Beyond 
these  again,  in  what  long  alleys  or  in  what 
fanciful  device  we  will,  box,  the  eternal,  may 
be  grown  if  the  climate  be  friendly,  which,  alas ! 


AUGUST  175 

it  is  not  sure  to  be  in  many  places.  A  ragged 
hedge  of  box  is  a  sorry  affair,  for  which  it 
is  much  better  to  substitute  English  ivy, 
pegged  down  and  confined  within  fixed  limits. 
It  makes  a  lovely  border  for  walks,  and  for 
large  beds,  as  does  also  the  periwinkle  or 
vinca  or  myrtle.  Covered  with  its  angled 
blue  stars  in  April,  the  myrtle  is  charming, 
while  its  deep  green  glossy  sprays  are  invalu- 
able during  the  cold  days  of  winter.  Here, 
too,  the  cost  is  practically  nothing,  since  every- 
body who  has  a  rod  of  earth  to  cultivate  knows 
of  some  abandoned  farmhouse  around  whose 
deserted  doorstone  the  myrtle  has  crept  and 
matted  in  thick  tangles  which  are  at  any- 
body's disposal,  and  which  will  take  hold  of 
any  new  soil  to  which  they  may  be  trans- 
planted with  all  the  good  will  in  the  world. 
For  a  ground  cover  under  trees  anywhere, 
this  good,  old,  tested  green  is  unsurpass- 
able. 

In  my  garden  plot,  rhododendrons  shall  be 
banked  against  some  stone  steps  which  shall 
lead  down  from  the  terrace  above.  In  August 
the  not-too-beautiful  offerings  of  their  far-too- 
often  purplish  blossoms  are  past,  the  plants 


176        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

are  busy  with  the  fashioning  of  the  pointed 
buds  into  which  they  are  packing  the  stores 
needed  for  another  year,  and  the  looker-on 
has  time  to  admire  the  stately  leafage  of  the 
shrubs  themselves.  An  ancient  garden  favour- 
ite, which  is  exceptionally  fresh  and  young  in 
this  month,  when  insects  and  blights  do  chiefly 
flourish,  is  the  matrimony  vine,  a  nuisance  if 
it  be  not  trained  and  pruned,  and  a  joyous 
fountain  of  green  branches  if  it  is.  Yuccas 
are  interesting  in  the  formal  garden.  The 
fine  columns  of  their  glistening  silver  flowering 
are  gone,  but  the  stiff  bayonets  of  their  leaves 
are  delightful,  set  along  the  edge  of  a  terrace, 
against  a  planting  of  the  Eulalia  grasses  which 
are  such  a  contrast.  The  yuccas  do  not  care 
for  much  water,  and  so  are  especially  good  in 
poor  and  sandy  sites,  but  they  should  never 
be  left  without  some  care  in  cutting  away  the 
spent  flower-spike  and  the  old  leaves. 

Another  comfortable  August  plant  is  the 
Funkia  or  day-lily.  Its  few  white  blossoms 
have  an  exquisite  freshness,  and  for  fragrance 
are  hardly  equalled,  while  its  corded  leaves, 
broad  and  cool,  are  good  indeed  to  see.  Year 
after  year  the  clumps  grow  in  beauty  and 


AUGUST  177 

stateliness,  loving  a  partial  shade,  but  caring 
more  for  plenty  of  water  to  drink. 

I  like  grass  paths,  even  in  box-edged  gardens. 
The  sharp  contrasts  between  the  greens  of 
hedges  or  the  blossoms  of  plants,  and  the  greys 
and  browns  of  gravels  are  not  pleasant.  To 
be  sure  grass  paths  are  damp  after  a  rain,  or  a 
heavy  fall  of  dew,  but  shall  not  the  overshoe 
men  have  a  chance  to  make  an  honest  living, 
and  is  life  so  short  that  we  cannot  spare  a 
moment  in  which  to  slip  off  and  on  the  rubber 
sandals  by  whose  aid  we  may  defy  all  weathers  ? 
Stone  walks,  laid  in  blocks  of  different  colours, 
are  almost  as  bad  as  were  the  pavements  in  the 
garden  of  Erasmus  on  which  the  taste  of  that 
day  painted  representations  of  flowers !  Grass 
paths  sympathise  with  all  kinds  of  garden 
efforts,  and  are  the  complement  of  every  flower. 
They  ask  only  for  frequent  clipping  and  rolling 
to  serve  you  better  and  better  as  age  toughens 
and  strengthens  the  sward. 

By  August  the  ferneries  have  lost  the  crisp 
freshness  of  their  prime,  more's  the  pity,  and 
more's  the  pity,  also,  that  certain  wild  things 
— the  natural  companions  of  the  ferns,  in  the 
glory  of  our  deep,  northern  forests — refuse  to 


1 78        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

adapt  themselves  even  to  the  green  shades  of 
the  greenest  gardens.  Pipsissiwa  is  one  of 
these  ;  a  most  charming  plant,  and  the  shin-leaf 
is  another.  The  wintergreen  belong  to  the 
same  sisterhood.  All  of  these  belong  to  the 
great  family  of  the  heaths,  which  have  a  habit 
of  clinging  to  the  haunts  and  ways  chosen  by 
their  forebears,  and,  as,  notably  in  the  ex- 
quisite trailing  arbutus,  claim  the  right  of 
selection  due  their  high  lineage.  It  may  be 
that  occasional  plants  survive  transplanting, 
and  make  themselves  at  home  amid  new 
environments.  I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  it  is 
just  as  well  that  man  should  stand  abashed 
before  the  stronger  wills  of  some  of  these 
delicate  aristocrats.  Perhaps  it  is  better  than 
well  that,  instead  of  seeing  them  in  humdrum 
garden  beds,  cheek  by  jowl  with  jolly-faced 
marigolds  or  flaunting  tulips,  "  those  flowers 
who  are  true  clients  of  the  sunne,"  we  must 
seek  them  in  their  proper  homes.  Everything 
loses  something  by  being  dissociated  from  its 
natural  surroundings  :  that  is  the  lesson  of 
Emerson's  "Each  and  All,"  which  is  the  one 
perfect  answer  to  many  questions. 

For  August  gardens  there  are  two  perfect 


THE   HILL 


AUGUST  179 

flowers — the  heliotrope  and  the  mignonette ; 
perfect  because  neither  of  them  takes  anything 
from  the  repose  of  the  place  on  which  one 
would  gladly  be 

"  Annihilating  all  that's  made, 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade." 

On  the  contrary,  both  bring  with  them 
supreme  gifts.  Cowper  tells  us  that  it  was  in 
the  year  of  his  majority  that  England  first  saw 
the  Frenchman's  darling,  which  surprises  us, 
because  we  had  seemed  to  have  associations 
which  reach  into  a  much  more  remote  past. 
Living  or  dead,  it  is  eminently  a  flower  of 
sentiment  and  of  refinement,  qualities  recog- 
nised in  that  verse  of  Bret  Harte's  "  Newport 
Romance "  which  appeals  more  perfectly  to 
the  ear  than  to  the  eye. 

"  The  delicate  odour  of  mignonette 
The  remains  of  a  dead  and  gone  bouquet 
Is  all  that  tells  of  a  story  :  yet 
Could  we  think  of  it  in  a  sweeter  way  ?" 

It  is  impossible  for  a  garden  to  be  over- 
crowded with  mignonette,  and  as  for  the  helio- 
trope, the  turnsole,  no  planting  could  be 
lavish  enough  to  satisfy  its  lovers.  Nor  could 
there  be  too  much  of  another  most  scentful 


i8o        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

treasure  of  old  gardens — the  citronella,  or 
lemon  verbena.  It  is  rarely  seen  ;  it  does  not 
grow  for  everybody,  and  it  has  its  own  high 
reserves.  I  have  long  had  a  fancy  that  it 
would  only  content  itself  under  the  care  of  those 
gentlewomen  whose  lives  are  spent  in  the  quiet 
and  fragrant  corners  as  yet  untouched  by  what 
we  call  "  the  world."  Engaged  in  the  cares 
of  their  well-ordered  households  ;  remember- 
ing the  Sabbath  and  the  poor  ;  careful ;  frugal 
toward  themselves,  yet  royal  in  their  generous 
thought  of  others  ;  fresh  with  the  dainty  fresh- 
ness of  well-laundered  linen — in  a  word,  the 
pure  in  heart,  who  see  God  everywhere,  are  the 
ladies  for  whom  the  citronella  grows.  They 
grow  other  things  also,  these  lovely  types  of 
gentle  womanhood — lilies-of-the-valley,  little 
double  white  daisies,  myosotis,  clove-pinks, 
little  pink  Hermosa  roses,  little  white  violets, 
rose  geraniums,  and  small-flowered  pink  and 
white  and  yellow  chrysanthemums ;  but  they 
always  have  a  bed  of  mignonette,  and  a  plant 
or  two  of  heliotrope,  and  always,  always,  when 
they  say  good-bye  to  a  guest,  at  the  doorway 
to  which  their  old-time  courtesy  has  attended 
her,  they  stoop  down  and  break  off  a  twig  of 


AUGUST  1 81 

citronella,    which  she  carries  with  her  as  the 
sweetest  benediction. 

I  should  like  it  if  one  corner  of  the  White- 
paper  Garden  could  be  set  solely  as  a  place  for 
scents  ;  to  have  a  garden  which  should  rival 
that  most  fragrant  spot  which  Hawthorne 
describes  as  Wordsworth's  garden.  Words- 
worth, we  know,  said  : 

"  I  believe  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes." 

Why  not  gather  together  those  heavenly 
breathings  into  a  new  small  paradise?  It 
need  not  be  a  task  of  so  great  difficulty  as  to 
discourage  even  those  happiest  of  all  gardeners, 
who  beg  clips,  and  exchange  roots  and  seeds, 
and  wait  for  years  for  the  coming  of  a  certain 
iris,  or  the  flowering  of  a  tardy  shrub,  and  it 
could  be  arranged  in  even  a  small  enclosure. 
That  it  be  enclosed,  I  take  it,  is  a  necessity. 
To  expect  the  full  charm  of  even  the  hardiest 
plants  set  out  in  the  unfriended  open,  with 
boys  and  cats  and  dogs  and  rough  winds  to 
visit  them  at  will  and  to  harry  them  at  pleasure, 
is  as  foolish  as  to  ask  a  child  to  carry  the 
bloom  of  its  babyhood  through  a  youth  passed 
in  a  hotel.  First,  last,  always,  I  cry  out  for 


1 82        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

barriers,  fences,  hedges,  walls,  anything  that 
will  give  the  flowers  the  privacy,  the  reserve, 
the  protection  which  it  is  their  mission  to 
teach  a  world  in  danger  of  forgetting  the 
lovely  ideals  that  made  the  old  days  dear  and 
sweet. 

Here,  in  the  sheltered  spot,  the  plants  and 
shrubs  must  be  massed  to  secure  what,  for 
a  better  word,  we  may  call  volume  of 
odour,  and  there  must  be  careful  grouping, 
that  those  coming  into  bloom  about  the  same 
time  may  blend  their  fragrance.  Under  that 
lonicera,1  which  flowers  before  the  leaf  buds 
start,  and  that  Daphne,  whose  purple  blossoms 
open  before  the  last  long  wreath  of  snow  is 
melted,  white  and  purple  violets  must  be 
planted.  Dig  in  fresh  soil  every  second  year, 
divide  and  reset  the  violets,  and  leave  the  rest 
to  April.  Under  the  lilacs  lily-of-the-valley 
may  be  left  to  its  own  devices,  and  under  the 
early,  sweet  Philadelphus,  commonly  called 
mock-orange,  small  white  and  mottled  pinks 
will  be  glad  to  grow,  and,  on  the  sunny  side, 
clumps  of  yellow  day-lilies.  It  would  be  a 
pity  to  leave  out  the  calycanthus,  or  strawberry 
1  Fragrantissima. 


AUGUST  183 

shrub,  dear  to  children,  and  place  must  be 
made  for  the  clethras.  If  there  is  room  for 
a  tree,  let  it  be  a  crab-apple  tree,  and  if  there 
is  a  wall,  plant  sweetbriar  and  the  evergreen 
honeysuckle  beside  it.  Roses  should  be 
chosen  solely  for  their  odour-giving  properties, 
and  lilies  will  care  for  themselves.  So  will  the 
sweetpeas,  if  they  have  a  string  lattice  to 
cling  to.  By  midsummer  the  air  is  full  of  the 
wine  brewed  by  the  precious  mints,  the  pinks 
— all  kinds  of  pinks — heliotropes,  some  peonies, 
some  phloxes,  mignonette,  "  the  bee-alluring 
thyme,"  rose  geranium,  one  of  the  clematis, 
and  certain  green  things,  angelica,  artemisia, 
marjorum,  rue,  rosemary.  Earlier  have  been 
the  tall  heads  of  an  old  favourite,  called  Greek 
valerian,  and  a  rocket  called  hesperis,  which 
with  small  flowers  and  sweet  alyssum  make  a 
sweet  trio  of  cruciferous  bloom  much  to  be 
prized.  Some  pale-coloured  verbenas  are  of 
a  most  refreshing  and  vernal  sweetness,  and 
there  are  citronellas  and  certain  musky-leaved 
plants  not  to  be  found  in  any  catalogue,  but 
which  I  would  search  for  in  forgotten  corners 
where  I  know  they  still  cling  to  life.  Always 
the  garden  may  hope  for  the  shy  flowering  of 


184        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

an  occasional  rose,  even  after  rose  time  is 
over,  and  as  the  year  grows  old  we  are 
strengthened  and  prepared  for  the  bitter 
pungency  of  marigolds  and  chrysanthemums, 
and  far  into  the  days  whose  morning  grass 
is  grey  with  frost,  and  in  the  gardens  are 
desolate 

"  Bare  ruined  choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang," 

the  violets  are  faithful  in  their  blossoming. 

This  is  the  month  of  the  night  garden.  It 
is  the  time  for  fireflies ;  those  ascending  stars 
which  glow  in  the  almost  tropical  twilights 
that  are  ours.  To  sit  in  the  warm  silence  and 
watch  the  momentary  upward  gleaming  of 
these  living  candles,  is  a  pleasure  not  to  be 
lightly  held.  As  they  flame  out  against  the 
mellow  darkness,  the  young  moon  shows  us 
the  steadier  lamps  held  up  by  the  night-loving 
plants  that  lure  the  night  moths  with  their  pale 
radiance  and  their  heavy  scents.  The  moon- 
flower  on  the  lattice  is  whitened  over  with 
broad  discs  of  honeyed  sweetness  ;  the  nicotina, 
a  disconsolate  thing  enough  by  daylight,  rouses 
itself  at  sundown,  and  opens  its  five-pointed 
stars  with  much  the  same  coquetry  that  a 


AUGUST  185 

grand  dame  of  fashion  prepares  for  the  opera 
or  for  a  ball.  The  evening  primrose  is  one 
of  the  most  interesting  of  American  plants, 
and  white  and  yellow  four-o'clocks  are  most 
satisfactory.  White  petunias  are  at  their  best 
after  the  shadows  begin  to  fall,  a  certain 
plebeian  quality  innate  to  the  flower  vanishing 
with  daylight.  "A  candlelight  beauty"  was 
the  phrase  once  used  to  describe  a  woman 
whose  charms  were  beginning  to  fade,  and  it 
is  not  a  bad  one  to  use  with  respect  to  the 
petunia.  There  are,  it  is  most  true,  many 
other  white  flowers  which  are  almost  more 
lovely  in  the  soft,  silvery  moonlight  than  in 
the  full  noontide,  but  they  do  not  belong  to 
August. 

If,  after  all  this  special  pleading,  the  August 
gardener  cannot  be  content  without  colour, 
there  is  a  full  palette  for  him  to  choose  from. 
It  is  the  fashion  to  decry  the  so-called  "  foliage 
plants,"  for  which  I  have  a  small  liking  myself. 
Yet,  why?  The  yellow-leaved  things  always 
suggest  decay,  it  is  true,  and  the  parti-coloured 
ones  blight,  and  the  spotted-leaved  ones 
various  insects  or  unwholesome  soil ;  but 
there  are  white,  woolly-leaved  centaureas, 


186        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

which  are  really  beautiful,  and  there  are  self- 
coloured  coleus  whose  deep  wine-crimson  are 
lovely.  There  could  be  no  place  in  garden 
of  mine  for  stonecrops  and  alternanthias  and 
achyranthus,  but  there  would  be  sure  to  be 
places  where  a  hedge  of  tall,  bronzed  cannas 
would  be  both  useful  and  imposing.  The 
green  varieties,  and  those  bearing  flamboyant 
red  and  yellow  flowers,  I  should  always  class 
with  caladiums,  and  salvias  and  red  geraniums, 
but  if  I  were  careful  to  clip  off  the  flower 
stalks  before  they  had  a  chance  to  show  their 
pitiable  red  petals  I  would  be  sure  of  a  good 
background  for  my  dahlias  and  for  the  hardy 
chrysanthemums — in  August  only  a  bushy 
promise. 

Can  I  have  forgotten  the  morning  glories 
which  are  at  prime  when  the  dew-drenched 
mornings  begin  to  have  a  feeling  of  the  coming 
fall  in  the  air  ?  Gay  gossips  in  pink  and  blue 
sunbonnets,  eager  to  see,  to  show,  they  climb 
the  fences  and  laugh  out  their  sunward  greeting 
in  a  way  to  banish  sorrow  from  the  saddest 
heart.  Theirs  is  the  song  of  Pippa — 

"  God's  in  his  Heaven 
All's  right  in  the  world," 


AUGUST  187 

And  theirs  a  divine  commission  of  cheerfulness. 
But  for  an  hour,  truly,  yet  into  that  hour  how 
much  good  will  and  sweet  friendliness,  how 
much  brave  beauty  and  helpful  service ! 
There  are  convolvulus  and  ipomeas  by  the 
score — lovely  almost  all  of  them,  but  the  best 
of  all  are  the  old,  cool  friends  who  won  their 
pretty  name  long  years  ago. 

Snapdragons  are  true  Augustians,  and  are 
of  a  most  lavish  and  gorgeous  flowering.  Blue 
is  the  only  colour  absent  from  a  bed  of  these 
plants,  whose  season  of  flowering  is  longer  than 
that  of  any  other  plant  of  importance.  The 
gardeners  have  so  improved  the  varieties  that 
there  are  more  and  more  shades  and  combina- 
tions of  shades  in  the  spikes,  that  lengthen 
and  ever  lengthen. 

Better  than  the  snapdragons  are  the  phlox, 
now  in  their  splendid  prime,  and  better  than 
the  phlox  are  the  hollyhocks,  towering  impos- 
ingly at  the  end  of  the  paths,  and  along  the 
edges  of  the  shrubberies.  Here,  again,  we  may 
look  for  every  colour  but  blue — white,  blush- 
rose,  red,  crimson,  prune,  yellow,  copper,  and 
a  dozen  shades  for  which  we  have  no  really 
descriptive  names.  Set  on  tall  spires  of  pale 


1 88        A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

green,  with  calyx  and  leaves  of  a  most  effective 
woolliness — there  is  small  wonder  that  the 
hollyhock  is  ever  the  painter's  flower.  None 
composes  better,  and  none,  it  seems  to  me, 
gives  a  more  comfortable  sense  of  home.  Yet 
it  does  not  care  overmuch  for  culture,  growing 
quite  contentedly  in  deserted  corners.  Indeed 
the  finest  display  of  any  flower  I  ever  saw  was 
in  the  yard  of  an  abandoned  stone  tenement 
house  in  an  old  mill-town.  Perhaps  they  had 
had  things  their  own  way  for  a  dozen  years ; 
perhaps  for  twenty.  Certainly  they  had  made 
the  most  of  their  liberty,  and  the  yard  was  a 
condensed  flame.  With  the  snapdragons  and 
the  larkspurs  and  the  phlox  the  mere  thought 
of  the  hollyhock  is  a  joy  to  the  heart  of  every 
garden-bred  child. 

And  every  child  should  be  garden-bred,  and 
no  child  should  be  cheated  out  of  his  heritage 
to  garden  joys  by  any  pretext  whatever. 
Nothing  can  make  up  to  him  what  he  loses  if 
he  loses  that :  nothing  is  of  any  value  compared 
with  the  treasures  enjoyed  and  laid  up  in  the 
long  hours  spent  in  that  one  companionship 
which  can  never  harm  nor  pall.  In  after  years, 
in  alien  places,  next  to  the  thought  of  our 


AUGUST  189 

father's  face  and  our  mother's  smile,  it  is  the 
old  garden  where  we  played  to  which  the  soul 
looks  backward — and  forward,  since  that  which 
hath  been  shall  be. 

When  I  think  of  children  in  gardens,  it  must 
be  confessed  that  I  think  of  little  girls.  Boys 
belong  to  the  larger  world  of  fields  and  woods 
and  the  hardier  joys  of  trapping  and  nutting 
and  fishing.  Orchards  belong  to  them,  but  I 
do  not  think  that  the  smaller,  more  orderly 
domain  which  fills  the  common  idea  of  a  garden 
appeals  seriously  to  a  healthy-minded  boy. 
In  the  cherry-trees,  among  the  strawberry  beds, 
or  the  melon  patch — or  even  in  a  turnip  field — 
there  is  something  to  be  done  by  way  of 
gratifying  that  perpetual  hunger  which  is  a  part 
of  being  a  boy,  and  to  which  nothing  comes 
amiss.  Flowers,  however,  mean  but  little  to 
them.  They  like  to  go  for  water-lilies,  because 
there  is  the  water,  there  is  the  boat,  and  there 
is  an  almost  certain  opportunity  to  become 
both  wet  and  dirty.  They  like  to  go  for  ferns 
or  laurel,  because  there  are  the  woods  and  the 
rocks  against  which  to  try  their  strength,  and 
there  is  the  absolute  necessity  of  tearing  their 
clothes  in  getting  the  armsful  of  fronds  or  of 


1 90        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

blossoms  which  ministers  to  the  primal  acquisi- 
tiveness of  their  race.  A  garden  however 
means  restrictions  and  limitations,  scorned  by 
boys,  but  accepted  by  little  girls  as  a  part  of 
the  eternal  feminine. 

If  any  proper  garden  such  as  everybody's 
grandmothers  and  aunts  used  to  love,  the 
whole  summer  was  none  too  long  for  the  things 
small  hands  found  to  do.  There  was  a  tree, 
always  a  tree,  there,  with  low-hanging  branches, 
under  which  the  little  women  kept  house,  and 
there  they  lived  that  mimic  life  which,  to  such 
little  women,  is  so  absorbing  and  so  real.  Bits 
of  gaily  painted  crockery  were  hoarded  there, 
and  perhaps  some  fragments  of  a  broken  mirror. 
Some  snail  shells,  some  bits  of  quartz,  or 
lichened  rock,  some  sods  of  dark  green  moss — 
that  was  all,  except  the  imagination,  that  con- 
verted these  properties  into  an  adequate  setting 
for  whatever  game  might  be  in  hand — 

"  A  wedding  or  a  festival, 
A  mourning  or  a  funeral." 

"  If  there  are  no  games,  what  is  left? "  cries 
Tolstoy,  but  there  are  games  in  plenty.  Violets 
are  turned  into  soldiers  or  duellists  by  inter- 
locking their  heads,  and  having  a  tug-o'-war 


AUGUST  191 

with  their  stems.  This  is  the  one  flower  game 
that  I  can  remember  in  which  boys  ever  en- 
gaged, and  this  only,  I  fancy,  because  of  the 
shuddering  horror  of  the  little  girls  at  their 
blood-thirstiness.  Boys  never  cared  to  hold 
buttercups  under  each  other's  chins  to  see  if 
they  were  fond  of  butter — they  knew  that 
already  ;  nor  did  they  puff  themselves  black 
in  the  face  to  learn  from  a  dandelion  ghost  if 
their  mothers  wanted  them — that  they  would 
learn  all  too  soon  without  questionings.  But 
with  the  aid  of  these  golden  fancyings,  which 
are  a  part  of  children,  the  little  girls  found 
whole  summersful  of  things  to  do  in  the  garden. 
If  dandelion  stems  are  split  back  to  the  blossom, 
and  the  bitter  strips  are  warmed  for  a  moment 
in  the  mouth,  curls  can  be  made  which  will 
instantly  transform  copper-brown  heads  into 
blonde  curly  ones.  Months  later,  much  finer 
wigs  may  be  made  of  cornsilk,  and  the  striped 
grass  called  gardeners'  garters  will  always  turn 
one  into  a  mermaid,  if  the  drama  in  hand  be 
Hans  Andersen's  Little  Mermaid.  A  basin 
of  water  tinted  to  a  proper  blue  by  the  sur- 
reptitious borrowing  of  the  family  indigo-bag 
is  ocean  enough  for  the  fairy  shallops  made 


192        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

from  the  petals  of  the  iris,  the  fall  making  the 
hull,  you  know,  and  the  standards,  with  a  thorn 
or  two,  acting  as  sails.  The  hulls  of  milkweed 
pods,  being  much  stronger,  may  be  driven  about 
in  the  wilder  waste  of  waters  found  in  the 
watering  troughs  by  the  gate.  The  finest 
balls  in  the  world  are  those  of  which  the  holly- 
bush  ladies  dance  minuets,  and  fandangoes,  to 
the  delight  of  the  chaperons,  who  sit  about  in 
the  full  dress  of  a  larkspur  bonnet,  or  a  hood 
made  from  a  four-o'clock.  Four-o'clocks  them- 
selves make  most  beautiful  ladies,  by  pulling 
the  skirts  of  half-a-dozen  over  the  little  green 
seed  ball  which  makes  such  a  satisfactory  head 
for  the  chosen  one.  Balsam  parties  are  not 
to  be  despised.  The  guests  do  not  long  retain 
the  cool  freshness  of  their  petticoats,  it  is  true, 
but  long  enough  for  a  dance  or  two  and  the 
serving  of  the  banquet  laid  on  acorn  plates, 
and  poured  from  rose-hip  tea-things.  Wafers 
made  from  the  silken  inner  tissues  of  honesty 
and  mallow  cheese  were  their  favourite  dainties 
in  the  long  ago  garden  days  that  were  mine,  and, 
if  the  occasion  were  a  patriotic  one,  torpedoes 
were  ready  to  hand  in  a  crumpled  rose  petal, 
and  cannon  in  the  spent  tubes  of  the  morning 


AUGUST  193 

glory,  or  the  elastic  pods  of  the  lady's  slippers. 
I  wonder  if  such  delicate  feasting  is  still  to  be 
found,  and  if  little  girls  themselves  dress  for 
paying  visits  as  in  the  old  days  ?  Do  they  link 
together  the  blossoms  of  the  phlox  into  neck- 
laces, and  earrings  and  bracelets  ?  Do  they 
wear  gloves  made  of  trumpet-creeper  flowers  ? 
Do  they  sew  with  foxglove  thimbles,  and 
drink  tea  from  Canterbury  bells?  Can  they 
fashion  delicate  wreaths  of  pink,  or  white,  or 
blue  from  the  slender  horns  of  the  larkspur? 
Have  they  patience  to  separate  the  fine  mem- 
branes of  the  "live-for-ever"  leaves,  and  then 
fill  the  little  purses  so  formed  with  water? 
They  are  good  for  nothing,  it  is  true,  for  they 
will  not  stand  upright,  and  the  water  spills  out 
if  they  do  not,  and  if  it  did  stay  in,  what  would 
that  avail  ?  In  a  garden  there  is  time  aplenty, 
thank  God !  and  in  the  morning  glow  no  one 
asks  that  a  thing  be  useful  to  be  worth  while. 
There  is  leisure  even  for  the  blowing  about 
of  thistledown,  or  for  tracing  the  flight  of  the 
fairy  sails  that  carry  the  seeds  of  the  milkweed 
far  through  the  unhasting  air. 


SEPTEMBER 


In  fallow  fields  the  goldenrod 

And  purple  asters  beck  and  nod. 

The  milkweed  launches  fairy  boats, 

In  tangled  silver  the  cobweb  floats  : 

Pervasive  odours  of  ripening  vine 

Fill  the  air  like  a  luscious  wine. 

The  gentian  blooms  on  the  browning  waste 

With  coral  chains  is  the  alder  laced 

The  blackbirds  gather,  and  wheel  and  fly, 
The  swallows  twitter  a  low  "  Good-bye  !  " 


GOING    TO    MEETING 


SEPTEMBER 

THE    HARVEST    MOON 

"  I  "HE  garden  keeps  up  a  lifelong  quarrel 
with  the  calendar  men.  They  say  that 
June,  July  and  August  are  the  summer  months  : 
it  says  that  summer  begins  when  the  first 
snowdrop  hollows  out  a  silver  vase  for  itself 
in  the  snow,  and  begins  to  ring  that  chime 
whose  music  only  the  purest  hearts  can  know, 
and  which  even  they  cannot  share  with  another, 
and  that  summer  ends  when  the  last  chrysan- 
themum is  gathered.  September,  therefore, 
is  a  summer  month,  with  a  perfect  right  to  its 
wealth  of  flowers.  For  her  the  June  dawns 
and  July  twilights  were  planning,  for  her  the 
hot  August  nights  were  at  work,  as  well  as 
for  the  Indian  corn,  which  the  farmers  say  they 
can  hear  growing  while  the  moon,  dimmed  by 
sultry  vapours,  goes  languidly  from  sky  to 
sky. 

The     Indian    corn!      Mondawmin,    mahiz, 
maize — how  the  beautiful,  generous  plant  lives 
197 


198        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

in  these  names !  Where  did  they  come  from  ? 
What  did  they  mean  to  the  first  red-brown  men 
who  spoke  them  ?  There  must  be  many  lovers 
of  our  America  who  regret  that  so  few  such 
links  are  left  to  bind  us  to  the  old  races  who 
were  here  before  us.  It  was  a  most  pathetic 
and  tender  trait  in  our  ancestors  which  led 
them  to  try  to  see  in  the  wild  growths  of  the 
land  of  their  exile  some  likeness  to  the  flowers 
of  the  old  gardens  and  old  fields  and  copses 
they  had  left  behind  them,  and  so  to  perpetuate 
the  old  names.  It  is  a  pity,  beyond  words, 
that  they  overlooked  the  opportunity,  which 
can  never  come  again,  for  knowing  the 
aboriginal  names,  and  that  the  little  knowledge 
that  we  have  is  so  widely  scattered  that  no  full 
or  convenient  lists  are  to  be  found.  Perhaps 
we  exaggerate  the  probability  of  the  existence 
of  a  full  vocabulary  of  plant  names  among  the 
Indians.  If  we  ask  one  to-day  for  the  name 
of  a  flower,  it  is  ten  to  one  that  he  answers 
"  wauwausquane — not  good  for  anything,"  and 
we  learn  our  first  lesson  :  a  plant  not  to  be  used 
as  a  dye,  or  a  food,  or  a  medicine,  is  nothing — 
only  a  flower. 

Such  of  the  old  names  as  are  left  have  been 


SEPTEMBER  199 

subjected  to  the  fate  of  the  words  of  all  un- 
lettered peoples,  and  were  reduced  to  writing 
in  such  form  as  were  suggested  by  their  sound 
to  English,  French  or  Spanish  ears,  and  were 
often  made  unnecessarily  clumsy  by  their  spell- 
ing. A  certain  wild  beauty  clings  to  the 
syllables,  properly  inflected.  It  is  easier  to 
say  pond  lily  than  6kundunm6ge,  but  the 
older  word  has  a  cool,  marshy  sound  quite 
in  keeping  with  the  still,  shadowy  waters, 
haunted  by  heron  and  by  kingfisher,  in  which 
the  white  flowers  open  to  the  sun.  The 
"  mountain-strolling  lilies  "  of  Meleager  carry 
their  orange-coloured  flame  with  the  same 
wild  grace  as  the  American  musk6tipineeg, 
and  the  word  inninautig,  the  tree  of  trees,  is 
a  delightful  name  for  the  sugar  maple.  Wild 
strawberries  have  a  most  delicate  flavour  if  we 
call  them  ohdamin,  and  those  dear  little  pink 
blossoms,  so  loyal  to  the  woods  that  they 
almost  always  perish  if  taken  from  their 
shelter,  are  sweet  as  spring  beauties,  but 
sweeter  far  as  miskodeed. 

Four  aboriginal  words  have  been  adopted 
by  the  scientific  world  in  naming  our  native 
plants — catalpa,  maize,  or  mahiz,  yucca  and 


200        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

Sequoia,  the  latter  in  honour  of  a  Cherokee 
who  invented  an  alphabet  and  taught  it  to  his 
people.  Popularly,  many  words  are  happily 
retained,  as  catawba,  and  scuppernong  for 
certain  grapes,  and,  used  as  adjectives,  we 
find  the  Chickasaw  plum,  the  Atamasco  lily, 
the  Missouri  currant  and  aster,  the  Osage 
orange,  the  Seneca  snake-root,  and  so  on. 
Over  our  heads  as  we  walk  in  the  budding 
woods  the  soft  fringes  of  the  tamarisk  are 
trembling,  and  the  tupelo  is  unfurling  its  flat 
fans ;  under  our  feet  the  aromatic,  gummy 
leaf  scales  of  the  tackemehack  are  fallen. 
The  silky  dogwood  is  the  kinnikinnick,  and  the 
movre  wood  of  the  main  coasts,  and  the 
willow  herb  of  those  hideous  charred  deserts 
which  follow  the  footsteps  of  the  murderers 
of  our  primeval  forests,  share  the  odd  word 
wykopy. 

The  white  fruits — black-eyed,  with  a  certain 
jewel-like  quality — of  the  cohosh  shine  above  the 
mossy  banks  on  which  the  fragrant  pipsissiwa 
is  blooming.  The  yellow  puccoon  or  alkanet  is 
abloom  on  the  prairies — and  when  fall  comes 
the  wood's  edge  will  blaze  out  with  the  scarlet 
wahoo  —  or  Indian  arrowwood.  From  the 


SEPTEMBER  201 

berries  of  the  black  holly,  or  yaupon,  the  famous 
black  drink  was  brewed,  and  although  tobacco 
is  tobacco  the  world  over,  to  Hackluyt  it  was 
vpponoc.  The  persimmon  holds  fast  to  its  old 
name,  and  so  does  the  chinquapin,  while  pecan 
is  a  pure  Indian  word  for  which  no  interpreter 
is  needed  by  any  Greek  or  Italian  fruit- vendor. 

Only  one  plant,  a  reed-grass,  ever  achieved 
the  dignity  of  becoming  a  token,  or  tribal  sign, 
but  it  was  while  I  was  making  sure  of  this 
that  I  came  upon  this  charming  pet  name  for 
a  baby,  "  gohana  "  ("  a  hanging  flower  "). 

Of  very  many  plants  the  word  Indian  is  used 
compounded  with  another  noun  in  our  common 
speech.  The  opuntia  is  Indian  fig,  the  wild 
arum,  called  by  New  England  children  Jack-in- 
the-pulpit,  is  the  Indian  turnip,  and  the  canna 
is  Indian  shot.  One  of  the  few  scarlet  flowers 
is  a  dianthus  known  as  Indian  pink,  and  the 
painted  trillium,  least  balmy  of  flowers,  is 
Indian  balm.  Why  other  tobacco  than  real 
tobacco  should  be  called  tobacco  at  all  I  do 
not  know,  but  one  of  the  lobelias  is  Indian 
tobacco.  One  of  the  groundsels  is  called 
squaw-weed,  and  one  of  the  broom-rapes  is 
known  as  squaw-root.  The  blue  cohosh  is  also 


202        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

called  papoose-root,  and  the  plantain  is  still 
often  called  by  the  phrase  of  ill-omen  to  the 
red  man's  ear,  "  the  white  man's  foot." 

Two  shy  woodlanders  come  last,  as  in  a 
great  pageant  the  post  of  honour  is  reserved 
for  the  man  held  in  highest  esteem.  The  sight 
of  either  may  well  dignify  a  day,  so  entirely 
do  both  belong  to  the  highest  aristocracy. 
The  cyprepediums  of  our  bluest  June  weather, 
swaying  their  white,  or  pink,  or  yellow,  or 
purple  slippers,  with  fluttering  untied  laces, 
are  the  Indian  moccasins  of  long-vanished 
races,  and  in  the  deep  August  woods  are 
those  pallid  ghosts ;  those  austere  and  solemn 
blossoms  ;  those  flowers  of  wonder  and  of  fear 
— the  Indian  pipes ! 

So  far  has  one  thought  of  the  September 
cornfields,  glistening,  rustling,  waving,  opulent, 
led  me. 

The  moment  the  air  holds  a  touch  of  what 
Hawthorne  calls  "  the  Septemberish  feeling," 
we  are  intensely  aware  of  an  overpowering 
sense  of  yellow.  Before  the  month  has 
touched  the  first  ripening  leaves  with  a  warning 
finger,  she  throws  down  armsful  of  flowers  with 
such  royal  prodigality  that  the  fields  and  way- 


SEPTEMBER  203 

sides,  the  edges  of  the  wood,  the  marshes,  and 
men's  limited  gardens  may  all  take  what  they 
will.  There  is  enough  for  all,  and  it  is  a  pretty 
greed  that  makes  the  whole  world  open  its 
arms  to  be  filled.  The  sun  shines  down  with 
redoubled  glory  because  of  the  floods  of  sun- 
colour  he  sees  below,  and  his  happiness  is  like 
that  of  an  earthly  father  who  loves  to  see  his 
own  likeness  in  the  faces  of  his  sons. 

More  and  more,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  gardeners 
will  specialise,  and  more  and  more  the  garden 
will  be  as  carefully  considered  as  if  it  were  a 
picture,  in  which  every  bit  of  colour  must  tell 
not  only  of  itself,  but  of  the  harmony  of  the 
whole.  People  will  think ;  will  choose ;  will 
reject.  Everything  will  have  its  meaning 
and  the  result  will  be,  ah !  what  will  it  not 
be? 

A  yellow  garden  would  be  the  easiest  of  all 
gardens  to  arrange,  since  Nature  has  made  more 
of  her  experiments  with  that  colour  than  with 
any  other,  and  the  plants  which  bear  yellow 
flowers  are  far  more  robust  and  easily  entreated 
than  those  whose  blossomings  are  pink  or 
white  or  blue.  It  could  be  made  to  be  a  joy 
while  March  winds  are  blowing,  and  a  greater 


204        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

joy  when  the  Thanksgiving  fires  are  lighted. 
Here  is  what  I  should  have  if  the  Fates  were 
kind. 

There  should  be  a  background  of  irregularly 
planted  conifers — white  pines,  firs,  and  hem- 
locks— which  should  have  grown  for  many  years 
just  beyond  a  high  brick  wall,  which  should 
have  gotten  that  mellow  tone  and  roughened 
texture  which  lends  itself  to  all  sorts  of  colour 
schemes  with  a  good  will  that  is  almost  human. 
If  I  could  not  have  this  I  should  like  to  shut 
out  my  neighbours  by  a  thicket  of  high  shrubs, 
the  quick-growing  elder  or  the  slow-growing 
dogwood,  or  the  middle-growing  sumach, — if  I 
went  to  the  woods  for  my  things, — with  a  spice 
bush  or  two,  for  the  sake  of  the  yellow  tufts  of 
aromatic  florets  which  come  before  the  snows 
are  fairly  gone.  Coeval  with  this  are  the 
Forsythias,  Fortunii,  suspensa,  viridissima, 
quick-growing,  clean-leaved,  insect-free,  and  so 
in  haste  to  greet  the  returning  sun,  with  their 
joy-peal  of  yellow  bells,  that  the  stars  have 
not  fallen  from  the  hardy  jessamine  before 
they  begin  to  sing.  While  they  are  playing  a 
triple  bob  major,  the  crocus  are  abroad,  at 
their  best  if  planted  in  thick  mats  close,  but 


THE  NORTH  MEADOW  BROOK 


SEPTEMBER  205 

not  too  close,  to  the  Forsythia  roots.  Before 
they  are  gone  the  daffodils  are  here,  and 

"  The  slim  narcissus  takes  the  rain  " 

in  all  the  lovely  variants  of  the  type  which 
men  have  loved  so  long  and  so  well.  The 
yellow  tulips  begin  to  glow  like  fire  before 

"  The  shining  daffodil  dies." 

And  while  they  are  in  their  splendid  prime 
the  Crown  Imperials  hang  out  their  pearly 
diadems.  No  one  will  care  to  cut  it,  but  its 
decorative  value  is  very  great  if  it  is  seen 
marching  along  the  brick  wall,  behind  the 
tulips,  and  well  beyond  the  border  of  yel- 
low primroses.  The  common  cowslip,  the 
common  primrose,  the  delicate  hose-in- 
hose,  no  one  ever  yet  had  a  border  of 
them  too  long,  nor  ever  will — since,  if  one  be 
not  the  veriest  of  Peter  Bells,  a  primrose  is 
not  a  primrose  at  all,  but  is,  as  saith  the  golden 
sentence  of  True  Thomas  of  Ecclefechan,  "a 
beautiful  eye,  looking  out  on  us  from  the  great 
inner  sea  of  beauty." 

A  good  shrub  that  is  being  forgotten  in  the 
modern  rush  for  new  things  is  the  Corchorus 
or  Kerria.  Its  foliage  is  exceedingly  pretty, 


206        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

and  its  angular  green  stems  give  it  an  all- 
the  -  year  round  usefulness  shared  by  few 
bushes.  Once  I  saw  it  at  its  best,  trained 
up  the  sides  of  a  long  arbour  whose  top  was 
a  heavy  thatch  of  wisteria.  The  sunlight 
played  through  the  purple  blossoms  where 
the  bees  were  humming.  The  Kerrias,  like 
hidden  princesses  in  old  fairy  tales,  tossed 
their  deep  orange-coloured  balls  into  the  air, 
which  was  filled  with  the  clamour  of  nesting 
martins.  The  tiny  mistress  of  the  garden 
stepped  daintily  along  under  the  gold  and 
purple  canopy,  nodding  her  grey  curls  appre- 
ciatively at  our  praise.  "A  pretty  place,"  she 
said.  "A  very  pretty  place." 

Now  come  the  iris  in  all  their  lovely  tones 
of  yellow  and  of  brown.  So  many  of  them ! 
So  free  with  their  gifts !  I  shall  always  care 
more  for  these  imprisoned  butterflies  since  I 
have  read  in  "  Mes  Origines,"  of  Mistral's  pas- 
sion for  a  colony  which  grew  in  a  ditch  in  the 
Provence  of  his  childhood.  Twice,  within  one 
fateful  half-hour,  he  fell  into  its  muddy  depths 
in  vain  endeavour  to  reach  the  blossoms. 
Twice  he  received  whippings  and  change  of 
clothes,  but  his  "hands  still  itched  so  to  clutch 


SEPTEMBER  207 

some  of  those  beautiful  bouquets  of  gold  "  that 
he  went  back  to  the  forbidden  spot  for  the 
third  time ;  for  the  third  time  he  fell  in,  after 
which  he  was  sentenced  to  bed. 

"And  what  do  you  think  I  dreamed?  Of 
my  yellow  irises,  pardi!  In  a  beautiful  stream 
which  wound  about  the  farmhouse,  limpid, 
transparent,  azured  like  the  fountains  of 
Vaucluse,  I  saw  magnificent  tufts  of  great 
green  flags  which  flaunted  in  the  air ;  a  veri- 
table kingdom  of  flowers  of  gold.  Dragon- 
flies  with  blue  silk  wings  alighted  on  them, 
and  I  swam  about  nude  in  the  laughing  water. 
I  seized  the  fair-haired  fleurs-de-lis  by  handsful, 
by  double  handsful,  and  by  armsful,  but  the 
faster  I  plucked  the  faster  they  grew." 

What  could  be  more  charming  than  that 
phrase  "the  fair-haired  fleurs-de-lis"? 

There  is  a  shrubby  tree  which  would  be 
glorious  in  June,  when  it  hangs  out  long 
clusters  of  yellow  papilionaceous  flowers.  In 
Austria  they  call  it  the  golden  rain — perhaps 
remembering  how 

"  Danae  in  her  tower 
Where  no  love  was,  loved  a  shower." 

There  are  also  tall  composites  which  make 


208        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

fine  backgrounds  if  the  space  given  be  large. 
It  should  be  very  large  indeed  to  find  room 
for   the   ubiquitous   golden    glow !      The    old- 
fashioned  sunflower  was  a  most  honest  soul. 
It  was  not  his  fault  that  certain  soulful  verse- 
makers  a  generation  ago  cried  its  praise  in  the 
market-place  with  such  zeal  that  a  weary  world 
begged  for  peace,  and  it  should  not  be  blamed 
for   their   lack   of  discretion.      Its   corona   of 
cheerful  ray-flowers  and  its  broad  tanned  face 
long  ago  became  an  integral  part  of  September. 
To  us  now  also  belong  by  right  some  prim 
yellow  dahlias,  and  the  whole  great  world  of 
goldenrod.     I  was  not  surprised  to  read  that 
with  the  grasses  and  sedges  it  was  the  fav- 
ourite  plant  of  Thoreau,  or  to  hear  him  say 
that  they  "expressed  all  the  ripeness  of  the 
season  and  shed  their  mellow  lustre  over  the 
fields  as    if  now  the   declining   sun   had   be- 
queathed its  hues  to  them.     It  is  the  floral 
solstice   a   little  after   midsummer,   when    the 
particles  of  golden  light,  the  sun  dust,  have, 
as  it  were,  fallen  like  seeds  on  the  earth  and 
produced  these  blossoms."     On  every  hillside 
and   in   every   valley    stand   countless   asters, 
coreopsis,  tansies,  goldenrods  and  the  whole 


SEPTEMBER  209 

race  of  yellow  flowers,  true  sun-loving  de- 
votees, turning  steadily  with  their  luminary 
from  morning  till  night.  Happily,  much  as 
they  love  to  gad  along  the  highways,  or  to 
celebrate  their  souls  in  fallow  fields  or  beside 
stone  walls,  they  are  quite  willing  to  fill  in 
angles  of  your  garden  with  their  bright  wands 
of  gold,  and  so  restrained,  are  of  great  colour 
value. 

Long  before  the  day  of  the  goldenrod  is  the 
day  of  the  yellow  day-lily  and  the  small-leaved, 
four-petalled  yellow  rose,  which  almost  never 
finds  its  way  into  a  catalogue,  but  lives  on  the 
gift  of  friend  to  friend,  in  farmyards  and  cottage 
garden  spots,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of 
roses.  Thorny,  scentless,  blooming  for  a  week 
or  a  fortnight  at  best,  it  belongs  to  that  precious 
sisterhood  of  which  we  think  when  we  read  of 
roses  in  the  old  poets.  And  that  is,  I  take  it, 
the  highest  test  of  true  rosehood. 

When  these  little  roses  are  covering  long, 
bending  wands  with  their  shining  gold,  the 
yellow  pansies  are  at  their  zenith.  Nothing  is 
better  than  to  plant  in  many,  many  yellow 
pansies  between  your  narcissus,  which  will,  if 
you  chose  them  carefully,  and  see  that  the  soil 


2io        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

has  plenty  of  sand,  plenty  of  bonemeal,  and 
plenty  of  sunshine,  give  you  six  good  weeks 
full  of  bloom.  The  pansies  will  not  only  bear 
them  company,  but  will  cover  their  ripening 
leaves  with  a  fair  pall  of  laughing  colour  and 
cheerfulness,  which  will  last  far  into  the  hot 
weather,  and  will  begin  to  laugh  again  when 
the  autumn  dews  fall  on  them.  Among  them 
have  some  bulbs  of  the  auratum  lilies,  I  beg 
you.  They  will  grow  quite  unperceived  until 
the  day  of  their  gorgeous  tropical  flowering 
and,  that  over,  they  will  withdraw  quietly,  and 
with  dignity.  Auratum  lilies  are  most  beauti- 
ful, also,  planted  about  with  yellow  Spanish  iris, 
who  go  the  way  of  all  things  bright  and  fair 
before  lily  time,  after  which,  if  you  have  a  small 
bed  for  reserves,  you  can  fill  in  the  bed  with 
any  one  of  half-a-dozen  yellow-flowering  things 
— Michaelmas  daisies,  calendulas,  marigolds,  or 
even  zinnias,  which  can  now  be  had  in  lovely 
shades  of  pale  yellow  and  burnt  orange.  The 
yellow  columbine  must  have  its  honoured  place 
in  the  hardy  border  beside  the  wallflower,  and 
a  small  very  double,  shining  ranunculus,  which 
used  to  bloom  in  long  ago  Mays,  snap- 
dragons, nasturtiums,  escholtzias,  coreopsis — 


SEPTEMBER 

these  are  the  things  that  must  be  renewed  year 
by  year.  The  dandelion  will  take  the  grass 
under  their  protection  if  you  will  let  it,  and  the 
moth  mullein,  and  common  velvet  mullein,  will 
make  you  glad  if  you  spare  their  chance-sown 
seeds, 

Americans  of  the  generation  after  the  next 
will  have  forgotten  that  there  was  ever  a  need 
for  the  naturalisation  papers  now  carried  by 
the  broom,  which  is  making  itself  very  much 
at  home  in  some  favoured  places.  I  wish  we 
could  have  the  gorse  too — or  whin — and  I 
devoutly  wish  every  American  who  has  a  bit 
of  wood  to  guard  and  hold  for  posterity  would 
set  out  some  witch-hazel.  If  we  were  obliged 
to  send  to  Japan  for  this  beautiful  siren,  how 
eagerly  we  would  offer  it  the  highest  seat  in  our 
plantations !  And  as  for  the  mate  to  the 
witch-hazel,  the  dear,  common,  hardy  old  yellow 
chrysanthemum,  it  were  worth  while  to  have 
no  garden  at  all  until  its  day,  so  well  is  it 
worth  waiting  for. 

Blue  gardens  have  been  planned  often,  and 
with  great  success.  There  are,  it  is  true,  no 
blue  flowering  shrubs  in  our  temperate  climate, 
but  white  ones  answer  excellently.  Have 


212        A    WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

spireas,  have  Madame  Plantier  roses,  have 
Madonna  lilies,  have  tall  spikes  of  valerian, 
and  low  borders  of  double  daisies,  and  mats 
of  the  perennial  candytuft.  Have  plenty  of 
white  asters  and  chrysanthemums  ready  for  the 
days  when  blues  are  not,  and  above  all  have 
plenty  of  soft  grey-green  leafage  to  set  off  the 
blues — moss-pinks,  lavender,  centaurias.  Your 
garden  will  be  then  a  parure  of  jewels,  sapphires 
of  every  sparkling,  palpitating,  ineffable  blue, 
set  in  the  silver  that  befits  such  gems. 

For  earlier  blooming  the  scillas  are  incom- 
parable, and  the  grape  hyacinths,  if  closely 
planted  and  left  to  themselves  for  a  dozen 
years  before  dividing  and  replanting,  are  very 
delightful.  Blue  hyacinths  are  altogether 
desirable,  but  need  an  abundant  high  light  of 
white  ones  adjacent  to  give  their  best  effect. 
Personally  I  care  most  for  a  small  single  variety, 
seen  in  old  gardens,  which  throws  up  many  tall, 
few-flowered  stalks  from  a  nest  of  leaves. 
While  they  are  here  the  woods  are  offering  us 
those  charming  blues  which  are  so  distinctively 
American,  and  so  easily  transplanted.  The 
violet,  which  is  the  violet  par  excellence  to  the 
world  at  large,  spreads  fairy  wreaths  of  deep 


SEPTEMBER  213 

blue  above  its  heart-shaped  leaves,  and  a 
polemonium  called,  as  so  many  plants  are,  blue- 
bells— or  Jacob's  ladder — flowers  for  nearly  a 
month.  Drifts  of  exquisite  phlox — the  "  Sweet 
William  "  of  the  children — blow  about  in  the 
undergrowths  like  bits  of  vagrant  clouds,  having 
an  extraordinary  change  and  play  of  colour, 
and  a  fragrance  as  distinctly  vernal  as  that 
of  the  primrose  itself.  The  tiny  Quaker  ladies, 
or  bluets,  or  innocence,  or  Houstonia,  camps 
down  among  the  grasses,  having  a  lesson  of 
its  own  to  tell  of  the  value  of  even  the  smallest, 
least  assertive  plant  when  shown  in  masses, 
and  there  is  a  Collinsia,  which  is  innocence 
also  in  some  places,  which  is  a  lovely  thing. 
Other  American  blues  are  the  mertinsias, 
hepaticas,  tradescantias,  the  viper's  bugloss, 
and  the  chicory,  whose  colour  Mrs  Clarke 
most  felicitously  called  "the  Wedge  wood  blue." 
Blue  morning  glories  and  ipomeas  will  reflect 
the  sky  upon  your  lattice  all  summer  long. 
Campanulas  will  give  you  six  weeks  of  flowering, 
and  the  monkshoods  can  be  depended  on  for  a 
grand  showing,  the  depth  of  their  colour  being 
that  of  deep  water  touched  by  some  hidden 
undercurrent,  which  produces  no  waves,  but  a 


2i4        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

slow  heaving  which  gives  the  light  a  chance  to 
work  marvels  in  its  bosom — vincas,  Veronicas, 
the  tall  blue  Lobelia,  and  the  pretty  little  brown 
varieties  of  the  same  plant,  plumbagoes,  Brow- 
alias,  are  all  good  blues,  and  good  bloomers. 

"The  blue 
"  That  never  shone  in  woman's  eyes  " 

glorifies  the  larkspurs  into  the  best  of  garden 
blues,  quite  another  thing  from  the  cold 
flower  of  thirty  years  ago.  They  have  been 
hybridised  and  cultivated  until  the  tall  spires 
of  quivering  blue  flame  are  often  six  feet  high. 
Their  great  hardiness  and  duration  of  bloom 
give  them  a  most  honourable  place  in  the 
world.  Again  I  am  indebted  to  Mrs  Clarke's 
penetration  when  she  says,  "  they  give  one  of 
those  invaluable  inflections  of  colour  which  are 
like  the  grace-notes  in  music." 

It  must  be  accounted  a  virtue  in  two  of  the 
most  exquisite  of  blue  autumnal  flowers  that 
they  resist  all  attempts  at  cultivation,  and  stead- 
fastly hold  to  their  inviolate  freedom.  There 
have  been  a  few  successes  in  the  long  list  of 
efforts  to  conquer  the  fringed  gentian  and  the 
harebell,  but  they  are  not  flowers  which  bloom 
to  order.  They  choose  for  themselves,  these 


SEPTEMBER  215 

flowers   of    the   sky,    these   reincarnations   of 
maidens 

"  Who  would  be  wooed,  and  not  unsought,  be  won," 

but   who,  in   spite   of  the   wooing,   elect   the 
solitary  way.     Who  would   care  for  gentians 
set  in  a  garden  bed,  or  for  harebell  nodding  in 
a  window  box?     They   belong   to  the   rusty 
sedges  of  brimming  September  uplands,  to  the 
silence  in  which  one  can  hear  the  leaves  breath- 
ing, softly,  as  a  shower  comes  down  the  hills, 
deeply,  as  the  rain  drifts  down  the  valley,  and 
the  silver  bells  of  the  water-drops  come  from 
farther  and  farther  distances.     The  gossamers 
are  abroad  in  gentian  days,  lacing  the  grasses 
with  cordages  of  fairy  spinning  for  the  dew  to 
thread  with  pearls,  and  there  are  faint,  delicious 
breaths  of  song  from  small  unknown  birds  who 
take   the   place   once    filled    by    the    blessed 
choristers  of  May.     They  are  too   small,  too 
shy  and  too  alert  to  be  readily  identified  by 
the  aid  of  the  how-to-know  books,  where,  no 
doubt,  the  colour  of  the  upper  mandible  and 
secondary  wing  coverts  are  duly  set  down  for 
the  enlightenment  of  the  student  armed  with 
a  rifle.     How  can  there  be  rifles,  when  rifles 
mean  the  taking  away  of  the  life  of  a  bird! 


n6        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

How  many  generations  of  song  and  move- 
ment and  usefulness,  and  beauty  and  pure 
delight  are  lost  when  one  of  them  falls  ! 

And  as  for  recognising  them  by  the  attempts 
to  reduce  their  songs  to  musical  notes,  or  to 
syllables !  The  one  perfected  effort  I  now 
recall  is  Emerson's  starling  phrase, 

"  The  starling  flutes  his  O-ka-lee," 

as  sweetly  in  the  printed  page  as  in  the  March 
marshes.  And  yet  even  this  must  be  heard 
by  that  inner  ear  which  remembers. 

I  do  not  like  red — a  red  flower  is  like  a 
coarse  voice  or  an  ungentle  hand :  it  hurts  ; 
and  in  my  garden  I  will  have  none  of  them. 
There  is,  however,  a  single  exception,  and 
that  is  a  part  of  the  pomp  of  September — 
the  favoured  Septembers  in  which  one's  good 
fortune  shows  us  this  special  bit  of  splendid 
colouring.  There  is  a  scrap  of  verse  some- 
where about  the  cardinal  flower,  which  shows 
it  not  ineffectively — verses  which,  I  think,  run 
somehow  thus : 

"  Oh  !  Bumble-bee,  revelling  in  the  sweets 
September  has  stowed  away 
In  the  heart  of  the  wayside  clover  bloom, 
Don't  you  know  'tis  the  Sabbath  Day  ? 


BROUGHTON'S  POND 


SEPTEMBER  217 

"  Do  you  not  know,  you  wicked  Bee  ! 
That  the  days  of  the  week  are  seven  : 
Six  long  days  for  work  and  play, 
The  seventh  for  rest  and  Heaven  ? 

"  I  know,  but  even  on  Sabbath  days 
A  hungry  Bee  must  dine, 
And  so  I  must  work  for  my  dinner  sweet 
Of  honey  and  clover- wine. 

"  Beside,  I  have  been  to  the  forest  church, 
Where  the  great  pine-trees  form  aisles, 
And  with  their  branches  weave  the  roof 
Through  which  the  glad  sun  smiles. 

"  On  pine-leaf  organ  the  west  wind  played, 
While  birds,  a  tuneful  throng, 
With  brook  and  insect  and  whispering  reeds, 
Carry  the  psalm  along. 

"  The  Cardinal  Flower,  in  crimson  dressed, 
His  hands  in  prayer  did  raise 
And  in  his  sermon  did  repeat 
Our  great  Creator's  praise. 

"  '  What  was  his  text  ? '    The  words  that  I 
To  the  clover  blooms  sing  low, 
That  the  Summer  winds  to  the  rushes  tell, 
That  I  hear  in  the  brooklets'  flow  : 

"  That  the  waves  lisp  murmuring  to  the  shore 
In  a  dreamy  soft  refrain  ; 
That  the  snowflakes  tell  to  the  winter  woods, 
That  the  flowers  learn  from  the  rain. 

"  The  same  glad  words  that  the  calm  stars  sing 
In  the  quiet  skies  above, 
In  one  grand  chorus,  '  Life  is  sweet 
And  God  is  Eternal  Love.' " 


OCTOBER 


The  bright-eyed  squirrels,  furry,  fleet, 

A  gleaming  go  on  pattering  feet. 

Brown  nuts,  polished  by  early  frost, 

On  the  moss  below  by  the  winds  are  tossed. 

Maple  and  hickory,  ash  and  oak 

Each  has  donned  a  gorgeous  cloak. 

Red  haws  gleam  the  hazels  near 

Dry  grass  waves  in  the  uplands  sere, 

The  year's  at  rest  in  the  mellow  haze, 
That  crowns  with  gold  these  royal  days  ! 


OCTOBER 

THE  TRAVELLER'S  MOON 

" "  I  "HE  year's  grown  old,"  we  cry  with 
Perdita.  It  is  not  any  the  less  worth 
while  for  that,  even  in  our  gardens,  perhaps 
better,  if  we  have  acquired  the  habit  of  thought 
that  permits  a  cheerful  contemplation  of 

"  The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  is  made," 
and 

"  Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither  ! " 

A  garden,  you  know,  is  traversed  by  paths 
suited  to  the  Seven  Ages  of  Man  impartially, 
and  from  the  high,  sunny  alley  of  roses  of 
noon,  the  quiet  vistas  to  be  travelled  later  in 
the  evening,  and  even  the  dusky  groves  where 
it  seems  to  be  always  night,  beckon,  not  always 
to  unresponding  heart. 

The  anxieties  of  seedtime  are  over  ;  fear  of 

221 


222        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

drought  or  flood,  or  insect  or  mildew  are  past. 
The  spendthrift  summer  is  gone,  but  it  is  a 
poor  story  if  we  cannot  find  in  the  careful 
hoardings  of  the  autumn  a  beauty  which  the 
prodigal  June  had  not.  A  hedge  of  roses 
on  St  John's  Eve  is  a  glorious  sight,  but  a 
handful  of  the  pointed  buds  of  the  China 
roses,  set  about  with  the  crimson  and  purple 
shoots  which  September  has  provided,  is  far 
more  precious.  They  have  the  added  grace 
of  that  pathos  which  envelops  everything  for 
which  we  plan,  and  hope,  and  which,  coming 
at  last,  comes  so  late  that  Farewell  treads  close 
upon  the  heels  of  All  hail. 

Now  that  it  is  October  in  all  the  gardens 
that  the  sun  shines  in  ;  the  friendly  sun,  to 
whom,  says  Thoreau,  "the  earth  is  all  equally 
cultivated,  and  a  garden,"  we  are  inspired 
with  new  virtues,  and  make  haste  to  gather 
up  the  fragments  that  remain,  that  nothing 
be  lost.  We  watch  the  skies  for  signs  of 
rain  or  frost.  We  are  abroad  both  early  and 
late,  because  we  know  that  idleness  now 
means  that  there  will  be  no  flowers  for  us 
next  spring.  There  is  a  touch  of  chill  in 
the  air ;  a  prescience  of  coming  change  in  the 


OCTOBER  223 

delicate  withdrawal  of  familiar  objects  behind 
the  thin  veil  woven  from  the  smoke  of  countless 
fires  of  fallen  leaves.  Tenderly,  but  with 
certainty,  we  are  told  that  the  time  for  rest 
is  drawing  near,  and,  as  in  the  last  dear 
moments  that  go  before  all  partings,  we 
linger  among  the  yet  familiar  friends,  seeing 
beauties  unguessed  in  richer  days ;  giving 
praise  begrudged  aforetime,  and  trying  with 
futile  pains  to  make  up  for  past  indifference 
or  blindness  by  a  too  brief  arduous  love. 

In  sweetpea  time,  how  little  we  cared  for  the 
nasturtium  !  We  recognised  their  usefulness 
and  good  will.  We  bade  them  hide  a  fence, 
and  it  vanished  behind  a  wall  of  green.  We 
told  them  to  cover  an  unsightly  heap  of  waste, 
and  it  was  done.  We  asked  them  to  take 
charge  of  the  window  boxes,  and  they  over- 
flowed with  obliging  leaves  and  bloom  ;  but  a 
careless  nod  was  as  much  as  they  got  for 
their  pains.  But  now!  How  glorious  we 
find  their  play  of  colour,  and  the  arch  postur- 
ings  ordered  by  their  pliant  stems.  True 
coquettes,  we  cannot  be  sure  to-day  what 
forms  or  colours  they  will  assume  to-morrow, 
nor  can  we  master  their  pretty  secrets  of 


224        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

movement,  or  their  tricks  with  beads  of  dew 
and  drops  of  rain.  Did  they  frolic  thus  all 
the  summer,  or  have  they  waited  for  cool 
nights  for  their  madcap  pranks? 

In  August  we  scorned  the  salvias.  Now 
they  find  their  place — if  they  are  planted  in 
our  neighbour's  garden,  and  the  neighbour 
keep  at  that  discreet  distance  which  allows 
the  planes  of  air  to  do  their  task  of  blending 
and  softening.  It  is  a  shame  to  think  so  ill 
of  the  good-natured  braggart  who  makes  so 
fine  and  quick  a  growth,  and  who  is  so  lavish 
with  his  spires  of  scarlet  bloom.  No  doubt 
he  comforts  many  a  heart  with  his  cheerful 
bravado,  and  as  he  is  an  adaptable  creature, 
asking  little  and  giving  much,  he  has  his  own 
large  uses,  and  it  is  as  little  as  we  can  do  to 
ask  his  pardon  for  our  ungracious  thoughts. 
Not  everybody  likes  scarlet,  that  is  all. 

Zinnias  are  the  best  October  flowers.  There 
are  now  strains  that  rival  the  rose  in  the  depth 
of  their  crimson  and  the  form  of  their  flower- 
heads.  There  are  oranges  and  yellows,  and 
ochres  and  dull  whites,  which  are  most  satisfy- 
ing— planted  against  a  background  of  spirea 
prunifolias  and  Thunberg's  barberry,  which 


OCTOBER  225 

colour  so  early,  and  in  tints  so  nearly  the  same. 
I  had  almost  used  a  word  commonly  reserved 
for  homespun  stuffs  or  for  certain  paints,  and 
had  said  that  the  zinnias  were  durable  flowers. 
Let  the  word  stand  !  In  the  garden  they  last 
for  weeks,  and  if  they  be  placed  in  a  jar  big 
enough  to  hold  them  loosely,  and  a  drop  or  two 
of  camphor  be  added  to  the  fresh  water  every 
day,  and  the  ends  of  the  stems  be  clipped  often 
— ands  enough,  to  be  sure ! — a  cluster  of  them 
will  keep  for  a  fortnight.  Zinnias  are  rather 
coarse,  it  is  true,  and  fastidious  persons  do  not 
like  to  touch  their  stems.  They  would  not  be 
at  all  satisfactory  as  spring  flowers,  but  now 
they  are  all  one  could  wish. 

In  early  October  the  African  marigolds  make 
a  fine  show.  Their  rank  scent  has  the  same 
tonic  quality  as  the  frost-presaging  morning 
air,  and  their  colour  is  magnificent — sulphur, 
orange  and  copper.  The  first  touch  of  frost 
kills  them,  but  it  does  not  kill  the  cosmos  which 
is  the  hardiest  of  all  the  composites,  except 
the  chrysanthemums.  Trained  to  a  wire  net- 
ting, and  kept  in  place  by  lacings  of  raffia,  the 
cosmos  makes  an  uncommonly  pretty,  feathery 
green  background  for  summer  flower-beds,  and 


226        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

comes  surprisingly  into  full  blossom  after  the 
swallows  have  left,  and  when  the  blackbirds 
are  making  ready  for  flight. 

Dahlias  are  for  October,  although  they  have 
been  making  themselves  felt  ever  since  Sep- 
tember came  in.  They  used  to  be  found  only 
in  the  out-of-the-way  and  rather  humble  places 
whither  so  many  old  time-ities  (to  use  Frank 
Stockton's  word),  have  fled  during  the  reign 
of  the  red  geranium,1  but  now  it  has  come  to 
its  own  in  popular  favour,  and  is  in  danger  of 
becoming  that  unbearable  thing,  a  fashionable 
flower.  If  the  soil  be  not  too  rich ;  if  the 
season  be  not  too  damp ;  if  a  little  judicious 
staking  and  a  great  deal  of  judicious  pruning 
be  done,  the  dahlia  will  make  a  fine  show 
of  velvet  heads.  They  try  to  make  it  look 
like  a  cactus  nowadays — but  why  ?  Why 
try  to  make  anything  or  anybody  resemble 
anything  but  itself  or  himself?  The  world 
has  outgrown  grained  woodwork,  and  imi- 
tation marble  walls  and  chimney-pieces ; 

1  The  story  of  the  Red  Geranium  is  thus  told  to  Joseph 
Vance.  "  What's  a  Wilier  ?  It's  a  'ouse  with  stables  for  a  one- 
'orse  shay,  and  a  green'us,  and  a  gardener,  and  some  scarlet 
geeraniums.  And  what's  geeraniums?  Well — geeraniums' 
what  they  sells  on  the  barrers." 


OCTOBER  227 

why  should  it  encourage  a  masquerade  of 
flowers  ? 

Pansies  are  incomparably  finer  now  than 
they  have  been  since  early  May,  and  the  sweet- 
scented  purple  violets  are  again  in  bloom. 
Tiny  seedlings  of  ladies'  delights  are  beginning 
to  bloom,  and  young  English  daisies  have  de- 
cided that  they  cannot  wait  for  their  first  spring 
to  know  how  it  feels  to  offer  the  guardian  sun  a 
little  garland  of  their  white  and  pink  blossoms. 
It  is  yet  possible  to  gather  a  handful  of  the 
cornflowers,  and  perhaps  the  mignonette  may 
still  have  blossoms  to  give  away. 

There  is  an  old-fashioned  flower  which  I 
long  to  see  restored  to  its  old  place  in  October 
gardens,  and  that  is  the  white  and  purple 
gomphrena.  It  is  one  of  the  many  flowers 
known  as  bachelor's  button,  and  because  of  the 
stiff  bractlets  which  protect  the  life  organs  of 
the  plant  it  is  often  called  a  strawflower. 
The  white  heads  have  a  nacre-like  purity  which 
I  have  not  seen  in  any  other  blossoms,  and  the 
crimson-purple  ones  cover  cheerful  little  bushes 
with  very  prettily  graded  balls.  They  were 
much  esteemed  in  the  good  old  days  of  genuine 
country  parlours,  where  stiff  bunches  of  these 


228        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

everlasting  flowers,  interspersed  with  the  silken 
flakes  of  the  honesty  filled  the  painted  vases 
on  the  high  mantel  shelves  just  above  the  row 
of  miniatures  or  silhouettes  of  slim-necked 
grandmammas,  and  perruqued  grandpapas. 
Patriotism  strikes  its  roots  deep  in  the  soil 
whereon  the  strawflowers  grow. 

On  walls  and  trellises  the  cobeas  are 
beginning  to  be  worth  while,  and  the  Madeira 
vine,  which  has  woven  such  a  thick  curtain  of 
leaves,  is  threaded  over  with  sweet  white 
stitches  of  bloom.  The  evergreen  honey- 
suckle thinks  well  to  offer  a  last  garland,  and 
at  its  feet  the  Hermosa  roses  smile  undismayed 
in  the  eyes  of  the  frost.  There  may  be  other 
roses,  a  few  hybrids,  and  teas,  but  it  is  always 
the  delicate  silvery-pink  Hermosa  that  seems 
the  true  October  rose. 

In  every  shrubbery  I  would  plant  as  many 
Japanese  anemones  as  I  could  find  room  for. 
So  placed,  the  summer  growth  is  unobtrusive, 
and  the  white  showers  of  bloom  which  come 
on  the  breath  of  the  autumn  winds  make  them 
among  the  most  invaluable  of  our  hardy  plants. 
There  is  always  the  charm  of  the  unexpected 
in  an  anemone.  One  cannot  be  quite  sure 


OCTOBER  229 

how  many  sepals  it  will  have,  or  what  disposi- 
tion it  will  make  of  them.  The  thing  one  can 
be  safe  to  look  for  is  the  great,  golden  constant 
heart. 

The  October  stone  is,  rightly  enough,  the 
opal,  its  pearly  lights  and  pale  amethystine 
shadows  are  her  late  dawns,  and  her  early, 
haunted  dusks.  Its  blues  are  her  skies,  its 
greens  her  young  springing  wheat,  and  its  reds 
and  pinks  and  yellows  are  those  of  her  ripened 
leaves.  And  since  this  is  true,  the  October 
garden  must  have  plenty  of  lawn  and  plenty 
of  shrubbery,  and  a  good  background  of  trees. 
For  once  I  will  not  beg  for  white  pines,  but  will 
have  red  oaks  and  black  oaks,  and  a  hickory, 
and  one  or  two  purple  ashes,  and  a  distant 
row  of  maples.  Rock  maple  for  yellow,  and 
soft  maples  for  the  reds  that  outblush  the  sun 
that  now  sets  in  so  dense  a  bank  of  smoke  that 
we  can  look  into  his  eyes  unharmed.  Between 
the  trees  and  the  zinnia  beds  sumachs  shall 
grow ;  the  tall  ones  which  colour  orange  and 
pink  ;  the  short  ones  whose  crimson  leaves  are 
stained  with  purple  and  olive.  Both  of  these 
fine  natives  carry  stiff  cones  of  claret-coloured 
fruit  far  into  the  winter,  and  both  have  tropical 


230        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

suggestions  in  their  pinnate  leaves.  I  do  not 
know  why  a  divided  leaf  always  has  this  sub- 
conscious meaning,  but  it  has. 

Dogwoods,  which  were  the  glory  of  the  May 
woods,  are  equally  glorious  now.  Sassafras  is 
a  close  second,  and  even  a  small  planting  should 
contain  it,  and  under  the  sassafras  there  must 
be  plenty  of  pennyroyal,  which  is  to  me  a  herb 
of  matchless  potency  in  the  evoking  of  old  and 
beloved  memories.  Of  common  garden  shrubs 
I  have  already  spoken,  my  especial  favourites 
being  the  white  snowberry,  and  the  barberries. 
With  these  are  still  late  asters,  pale  purple, 
like  drifts  of  smoke,  among  the  withering 
leaves,  and  a  small-flowered  white  variety  that 
grows  in  the  unnoted  way  certain  asters  affect, 
as  if  fern  seed  were  sown  about  them,  yet  which 
at  the  right  moment,  doff  their  cloaks  of  dark- 
ness, and  stand  forth  in  a  robe  of  silver 
embroidered  with  seed  pearls.  For  once  I 
wish  I  knew  the  scientific  name  of  this  fairy 
princess,  so  great  a  favourite  is  she  with  me, 
and  gladly  would  I  herald  her  praises.  For 
all  her  finery  she  is  a  very  democratic  princess, 
and  strolls  along  dusty  highways  and  ragged 
fences  like  any  gypsy. 


OCTOBER  231 

To  men,  in  whose  hearts  the  ancient  land 
hunger  of  the  Aryan  aches  unsatisfied  by  all 
the  white  paper  ever  bleached  and  pressed, 
the  true  October  is  not  red,  but  brown,  the 
colour  of 

"  The  good  gigantic  smile  of  the  brown  earth;" 

There  can  be  nothing  more  subtle  than  the 
mellow  tones  of  a  freshly  ploughed  field, 
velvet  black  if  we  look  across  them  sunward ; 
brown  and  grey  with  silver  lights  and  purple 
shadows  if  we  face  the  pole  star.  Horses  seem 
glad  to  turn  the  furrows,  and  the  farmer,  cast- 
ing the  seed  into  the  loam,  is  performing  the 
highest  and  most  symbolic  of  all  human 
labours.  Fellow  -  worker,  he,  with  the  sun 
and  the  wind  and  the  rain  and  the  frost, 
marrying  the  potent  germ  of  the  bread  that 
is  to  be,  with  the  dark  secret  forces,  for  ever 
working  together  with  the  awful  First  Cause, 
to  care  for  that  which,  in  its  turn,  must  go 
back  to  the  elements  again  and  again  in 
endless  cycles. 

Elizabeth,  who  needs  no  other  name  to  the 
guests  who  flock  to  her  German  garden,  tells 
us  how  she  longs  to  imitate  her  servants  and 


232        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

to  put  her  hands  into  the  dirt  itself.  The 
change  would  be  but  a  poor  one  to  me  if  I 
had  to  barter  the  friendly,  homely  contact 
with  the  pleasant  earth  for  the  dignity  to 
which  so  great  a  solace  was  denied.  If  I 
had  a  real  garden,  with  real  soil  in  it,  nothing 
should  keep  me  from  going  down  on  my 
knees  and  getting  every  one  of  my  ten  fingers 
as  black  as  black  could  be.  I  would  dig.  I 
would  plant.  I  would  weed:  oh,  with  what  joy  ! 
Before  the  latter  rains  come,  and  while  the 
chrysanthemums  are  budding,  is  the  time  for 
garden-making.  There  is  not  the  constant 
hindrance  of  showery  weather  which  April 
brings,  and  instead  of  courting  rheumatisms 
and  influenzas  by  bending  over  soaked  bor- 
ders, across  which  chilly  winds  are  blowing, 
here  is  the  golden  haze  of  the  ripened  year 
to  envelop  us  like  a  garment ;  comforting, 
strengthening.  Leisure  is  abroad,  a  wide 
sense  of  duty  accomplished  inspires  to  new 
effort,  and 

"  Hope  smiles  enchanted,  and  waves  her  golden  hair." 

Already  there   must  have  been  long  hours 
of    careful    planning :    already    the    changes 


OCTOBER  233 

which  unmake  the  mistakes  of  the  past  have 
been  decided  upon.  Already  the  bulb  cata- 
logues and  the  tree  and  shrub  books,  and  the 
hardy  plantsmen's  lists  have  been  committed 
to  memory,  and  the  processes  of  selection, 
revision,  addition  and  elimination  have  been 
gone  through  time  and  again.  Already  the 
orders  have  been  placed,  and  the  express 
has  brought  those  boxes  and  parcels  whose 
opening  means  pure  joy.  The  polished  brown 
tulips  ;  the  fat,  glossy  daffodils ;  the  rough- 
coated  hyacinths ;  the  slender  Spanish  iris ; 
the  little  crocus  buttons  which  set  one  guess- 
ing as  in  the  old  game  of  head-or-tails — 
the  twiggy  shrublets  and  the  rough  -  looking 
perennials — ah !  what  equals  these  sights  for 
suggestion,  and  for  the  fair,  unseen  beauty 
that  hovers  over  them  before  the  trained 
vision  ?  Here  is  a  true  Shekinah,  since 
wherever  is  beauty  there  is  God. 

The  old  borders  must  now  be  carefully 
spaded.  If  old  clumps  are  to  be  divided,  or 
transplanted,  take  them  up  tenderly,  lift  them 
with  care,  and,  behold,  one  is  many !  Phlox 
roots  are  shifted,  primroses  are  cleft  and 
replanted,  doubling  and  trebling  the  row  that 


234        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

so  rejoiced  all  eyes  last  spring.  New  violet 
beds  are  to  be  started  from  the  strong  seed- 
lings that  grow  in  between  the  old  plants. 
New  pansies  must  be  taken  from  the  cold 
frame  and  set  out  between  the  fresh  plantings 
of  daffodils.  The  Madonna  lilies  which  were 
reset  in  August  now  show  fine  tufts  of  root 
leaves  between  which  young  plants  of  English 
larkspur  show  their  cleft  leaves.  Rows  of 
Canterbury  bells,  mats  of  pinks  and  sweet 
williams  and  columbines — where  is  the  time 
to  come  from  in  which  to  get  everything  in 
order  ?  What  will  happen  if  we  have  failed 
to  hoard  every  flake  of  ashes  from  the  hearth 
fire  ?  What  shall  we  do  if  we  have  forgotten 
to  bring  home  from  every  outing  a  pailful  of 
sand  for  lightening  the  soil,  or  for  sifting  under 
and  over  every  Dutch  bulb  ?  Which  is  better 
worth  while,  a  new  coat  or  some  loads  of  earth 
from  the  depths  of  a  swamp ;  from  the  woods 
or  from  the  stableyard  of  some  farmer  too 
careless  to  know  that  he  would  do  better  to 
give  away  his  best  cow  than  the  rich  composts 
to  which  he  is  so  indifferent  ?  There  is  a 
constant  opportunity  for  choice  on  garden 
days,  and  a  better  school  for  developing  the 


OCTOBER  235 

ideal  and  for  learning  to  rate  lower  things 
at  their  true  value  can  nowhere  else  be 
found. 

I  think  I  once  said  that  in  all  my  life  I 
had  never  read  a  page  from  a  printed  book 
out  of  doors.  Nor  ever  will !  Books  are 
for  winter — for  nights,  for  stormy  days,  and 
for  times  of  ailing  health.  Why  spend  time 
in  reading,  when  we  might  be  seeing?  And 
are  not  our  eyes  to  be  trusted  as  well  as 
another's  ? 

There  is  no  prohibition,  however,  against 
thinking  in  the  open  that  which  has  been 
learned  by  the  study  fire,  and  he  walks 
through  a  garden  but  poorly  fitted  for  its  best 
enjoyment  who  has  not  the  companionship  of 
the  thoughts  other  men  have  had  there.  The 
eyes  of  Richard  Jeffries,  of  Thoreau,  of 
Burroughs  and  of  Bradford  Torrey ;  of  Izaak 
Walton,  of  Dean  Hole,  and  Canon  Ellacombe, 
of  Maeterlinck,  and  of  White  of  Selborne — 
to  name  a  few  favourite  out-of-door  observers 
who  write  what  is  called  prose,  but  which  is 
often  the  highest  poetry — open  our  own  to  a 
thousand  things  unnoted  before.  There  are 
some  precious  books  by  women — Mrs  C.  W. 


236        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

Earle,  Mrs  Alice  Morse  Earle,  Miss  Jeykll, 
Mrs  Clarke,  Miss  Blachjen,  Mrs  Thaxter,  Mrs 
Wright  and  the  charming  Elizabeth,  which 
seem,  indeed,  to  make  it  idle  for  another 
woman  to  write  down  the  garden  thoughts  that 
grow  in  the  shadowy  White-paper  Country 
where  her  possessions  lie.  More  precious 
still  are  the  old  herbals  and  travellers'  journals 
and  early  handbooks,  and  best  of  all  are  the 
worn  old  poetry  books,  with  dried  violets 
between  their  leaves,  and  pencil  marks  and 
dates  along  their  margins,  from  which  we  have 
learned  the  singing  words  that  lighten  our 
garden  days.  I  could  not  have  the  best  of 
October  if  I  could  not  repeat  Keats'  "Ode  to 
Autumn  "  as  I  walk  through  the  golden  after- 
noons, and  over  and  over  I  repeat  these 
perfect  lines  of  Emily  Dickinson  : 

"  These  are  the  days  when  birds  come  back, 
A  very  few  :  a  bird  or  two 
To  take  a  backward  look. 

"  These  are  the  days  when  skies  put  on 
The  old,  old  sophistries  of  June — 
A  blue-and-gold  mistake. 

"  O  fraud  that  cannot  cheat  the  bee ! 
Almost  thy  plausibility 
Induces  my  belief. 


OCTOBER  237 

"  Till  ranks  of  seeds  their  witness  bear, 
And  softly  through  the  altered  air 
Hurries  a  timid  leaf. 

"  O  sacrament  of  summer  days, 
O  lost  communion  of  the  haze, 
Permit  a  child  to  join. 

"  Thy  sacred  emblems  to  partake 
Thy  consecrated  bread  to  break, 
Taste  thy  immortal  wine  ! " 

I  have  not  been  quite  able  to  guess  out  Miss 
Dickinson's  favourite  flower,  and  so  to  win 
one  more  point  in  a  little  game  of  solitaire,  at 
which  I  sometimes  play  on  rainy  nights,  when 
I  like  to  think  of  the  flowers  my  forerunners 
have  found  to  be  worthy  of  their  best  love. 
I  am  almost  sure,  however,  that  it  must  have 
been  the  Indian  pipe — that  illusive  yet  most 
alluring  mystery  of  the  deep  woods,  which 
beckons  you  with  a  promise  of  spiritual  unfold- 
ings  which  our  minds  are,  alas !  too  gross  to 
perceive ! 

Of  English  writers,  the  daisy  is  for  Chaucer. 
We  have  no  other  view  of  the  poet  of  the 
dawn  so  intimate  as  that  in  which  we  see  him 
in  eager  flight  across  the  dewy  grass  of  that 
long-ago  morning  when  the  virgin  daisies 
were  opening  their  golden  hearts  to  the  sun. 


238        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

Wherever  he  could  plant  a  daisy  in  the  fair 
gardens  of  his  verse  there  shine  these 

"  Pearled  Arcturii  of  the  Earth, 
The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets." 

Daisies  were  dear  to  Shelley  and  to  Keats 
as  well  as  to  Burns,  to  Goethe  also  (English,  by 
right  of  translation),  but  I  cannot  but  think 
that  he  cared  more  for  the  more  sophisticated 
myrtles  and  laurels ! 

For  Spenser,  who  loved  all  loveliness,  I 
cannot  find  any  distinctive  favourite :  that  a 
flower  was  fair  to  look  at  and  sweet  to  breathe 
was  enough  for  him.  Shakespeare  wove  many 
garlands  of  English  blossoms,  but  most  of  all 
he  loved  the  cowslips  of  the  Avonside  fields. 
The  footsteps  of  Johnson's  "  Gentle  Shep- 
herdess "  were  blotted  out  by  the  field-flowers 
that  sprang  up  wherever  her  light  steps 
passed ;  and  the  best  gifts  which  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh's  shepherd  could  offer  to  his  dear,  came 
from  the  hedgerow. 

In  Milton's  "  Lycidas  "  he  gives  one  perfect 
characterisation  : 

"  The  pansy  freaked  with  jet." 

Otherwise  his  botany  is  that  of  one  of  those 


OCTOBER  239 

rather  unobservant  townsmen  who  would  never 
have  found  a  four-leaved  clover,  lived  they 
ever  so  long.  And  that,  by  the  way,  is  my 
test  of  a  careful  and  accurate  observer — the 
finding  of  these  luck-leaves,  which  are  really 
not  at  all  uncommon. 

Herrick  loved  all  flowers  equally  —  apple 
blossoms,  tulips,  carnations,  primroses  gilly 
flowers.  To  him  they  were  smiling  and 
innocent  maidens,  whose  charms  the  free- 
spoken  old  divine  was  never  tired  of  praising. 

We  think  of  Addison  and  the  London  of 
his  brilliant  day  together,  but  for  all  that  he 
knew  of  the  manners  of  the  great  world  he 
knew  this  also:  "There  is  not  a  bush  in 
bloom  within  a  mile  of  me,  which  I  am  not 
acquainted  with,  nor  scarce  a  daffodil  or 
violet  that  withers  in  my  neighbourhood  with- 
out my  missing  it.  I  walk  home  in  this 
temper  of  mind  through  several  fields  and 
meadows  with  an  unspeakable  pleasure,  not 
without  reflecting  on  the  bounty  of  Provi- 
dence which  has  made  the  most  pleasing 
and  the  most  beautiful  objects  the  most 
common,"  and  "  I  value  my  garden  more 
for  being  full  of  blackbirds  than  of  cherries 


A    WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

and  very  frankly  give  them  fruit  for  their 
songs." 

Wordsworth,  we  know,  kept  such  trysts 
with  plants,  and  in  our  own  land  Hawthorne 
knew  when  to  go  to  the  haunts  of  bogarethums 
almost  as  surely  as  Emerson's  feet  were  led  to 
the  rhodoras.  Thoreau  knew  by  high  instinct 
as  well  as  by  long  experience  when  and  where 
to  find  every  growing  thing  in  that  wonderful 
little  world  about  Concord  in  which,  he  tell  us, 
11 1  have  travelled  a  great  deal,"  and  of  which 
he  has  made  citizens  every  one  who  loved  his 
mistress  Nature. 

Keats  and  Shelley  and  Wordsworth  had 
each  a  golden  word  for  every  flower  they 
knew.  The  daisy  belonged  to  them  and  to 
Burns,  as  I  have  said  ;  and  to  Sir  Walter  the 
bracken,  the  harebell  and  the  heather  were  a 
part  of  the  caller  air  of  Scotland.  Miss  Austen 
had  a  quiet  liking  for  the  trim  Georgian  gar- 
dens, walled  in  and  sweet  with  roses  and  laven- 
der but  she,  as  well  as  her  sprightly  sister,  Miss 
Ferriers,  were  too  busy  with  men  and  women 
to  care  overmuch  about  things  inanimate,  a 
trait  showed  by  Miss  Bronte  and  George  Eliot, 
in  a  degree.  So  was  Thackeray,  who  had 


OCTOBER  241 

small  patience  with  the  "faded  vegetable" 
once  a  rose  and  so  always  a  rose  to  poor 
Maria  Esmond,  and  aside  from  an  occasional 
bouquet  from  Covent  Garden  Market  no  flowers 
to  speak  of  grow  on  his  pages.  Dickens  will 
always  be  associated  with  the  ivy  and  holly  of 
his  favourite  season. 

Edward  Fitzgerald  was  passionately  fond  of 
nasturtiums.  Ruskin  loved  lilies,  and  great 
Florentine  iris,  and  vine  leaves,  but  indeed  his 
was  a  taste  so  catholic  as  to  include  the  little 
brunella,  which  he  called  a  "  brownie  flower." 
Hunted  from  lawns,  crowded  away  into  waste 
places,  and  forced  to  find  foothold  by  dusty 
waysides  and  foul  ditches  it  is  curious  that  this 
little  self-heal  should  have  been  praised  by 
men  so  different,  temperamentally,  as  Ruskin, 
Thoreau,  and  Emerson.  Like  Thoreau, 
Tennyson  loved  blue  flowers.  The  Brown- 
ings, the  Rossettis,  Swinburne,  Morris, 
Austen  were  all  garden  lovers.  Longfellow 
and  Whittier  were  loyal  to  the  New  England 
flora,  and  Lowell  was  at  his  best  when  he 
wrote  of  the  dandelion.  Bryant  was  the 
gentian's  friend,  and  Hawthorne  that  of  the 
arethusa,  as  might  have  been  expected  of  his 


242        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

solitary  and  reserved  nature.  Dr  Holmes 
chanted  the  praise  of  box,  and  next  after  this 
cared  for  the  little  grape  hyacinths  or  "  blue 
bottles  "  that  lurk  about  in  gardens  made  in 
colonial  days.  A  book  might  easily  be  written 
about  the  flower-loves  that  have  cheered  men 
devoted  to  letters,  to  music  and  to  painting, 
and  almost  without  exception  it  would  be  found 
that  they  centred  about 

"  the  good  old  week-day  blossoms 
I  used  to  see  so  long  ago 
With  hearty  sweetness  in  their  bosoms 
Ready  and  glad  to  bud  and  blow." 

By  the  time  October  is  well  on  her  way,  the 
most  stupid  person  will  have  learned  at  least 
one  garden  lesson,  and  that  is  that  Nature 
loves  to  plant  in  masses,  and  with  an  eye  to 
the  effect  of  the  flower  upon  the  landscape. 

By  landscape  we  may  mean — we  always  do 
when  we  can — the  wide  sweep  of  hills  and 
valleys,  or  rolling  fields  and  orchards  which 
lose  themselves  in  a  far  horizon,  or  we  may 
mean  the  sheltered  spacelet  which  lies  between 
a  tiny  cottage  and  its  neighbour.  If  Nature 
has  a  spray  of  ladies'  tresses  she  sets  it  where 
its  beauty  is  supreme — at  the  edge  of  a  ferny 


OCTOBER  243 

hollow.  If  she  has  a  spire  or  two  of  cardinal 
flowers,  she  gives  it  into  the  care  of  a  grey- 
bouldered  brook,  which  nourishes  some  special 
mosses  and  tall  sedges  to  give  it  companion- 
ship, or  coaxes  a  hemlock-tree  to  spread  its 
drooping  boughs  near  by.  To  find  one  of 
these  jewels  in  its  appointed  setting  is  always 
an  event  of  moment,  and  introduces  one  to  a 
most  beautiful  planting  secret.  For  everyday 
work,  however,  she  trusts  to  the  effect  invari- 
ably produced  by  the  flowering  together  of 
many  plants  of  the  same  species,  the  whites  of 
a  daisied  hillside  ;  the  purple-rose  of  a  heathery 
moor,  the  yellows  of  a  marshland  of  golden- 
rods  and  tiny  sunflowers.  These  are  the  open 
pages  on  which  can  be  read  at  a  glance  what 
she  wishes  us  to  do  if  we  are  willing  to  work 
with  her.  So  planted  one  flower  protects 
another,  thus  winning  the  cross  fertilisation 
essential  to  the  transmission  of  many  species, 
and  so  arranged  there  is  always  possible  the 
full  gratification  of  colour  -  sense  which  no 
solitary  flower  can  ever  give. 

The  second  lesson  is  that  of  succession. 
What  is  the  good  if  your  garden  is  aglow  at 
opentyde  with  all  the  tulips  that  ever  came 


244        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

out  of  the  East  with  the  sunlight  in  their  veins, 
if  there  be  no  answering  loveliness  of  mid- 
summer lilies,  or  late  autumn  asters  ?  A  pause 
of  even  a  week  between  the  flowerings  of  your 
garden-beds  means  that  you  have  been  faithless 
to  the  highest  teachings,  and  careless  of  their 
offered  bounty. 

Perceiving  these  truths,  living  them  and 
showing  them  to  others,  the  garden  may 
become  a  little  centre  of  civilising  influences 
from  which  peace,  and  order,  and  contentment 
irradiate — who  can  say  how  far  ? 


NOVEMBER 


Over  the  night's  low  clouds,  the  flare 
Of  burning  marsh  throws  a  ruddy  glare. 
Blue  mists  cling  to  the  distant  hill ; 
The  flowers  are  gone,  and  the  woods  are  still 
Where  dry  grass  bends  neath  the  fox's  tread 
The  weird  witch-hazel's  bower  is  spread. 
Across  the  sunset  sky,  the  crows 
Cawing  fly,  in  wavering  rows: 

Slowly  and  sadly  the  daylight  dies 
The  wind  is  bleak,  it  sobs  and  cries  I 


LATE   AFTERNOON 


NOVEMBER 

THE  BEAVER'S  MOON 

"HT^HERE  are  as  many  kinds  of  gardens  as 
-*-     there  are  of  poetry,"  says  The  Tatler, 
and  among  them  all  there  can  never  be  one 
that  is  commonplace. 

The  very  word  garden  implies  much — 
space  set  apart  with  a  definite  purpose  of  add- 
ing to  the  world's  stock  of  beauty  ;  labour, 
time  and  money  consecrated  to  the  same  high 
intent ;  learning,  experience  and  the  long,  long 
thought  of  the  faithful  men  who  have  devoted 
themselves  to  the  calling  of 

"  The  grand  old  gardener  '-'• 

to  whom  the  first  garden  was  given  to  dress. 
One  may  look  at  the  story  of  Adam  from  many 
points  of  view,  but  the  garden  background  is 
always  insistently  present. 

When  all  the  gardeners  win  home  to  Para- 
dise at  last  what  a  gathering  it  will  be  !     From 
247 


248        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

what  most  ancient  Indias  and  Chinas  and 
Persias  and  Egypts  will  they  come !  From 
what  Spains,  and  Low  Countries !  What 
Italys  and  what  Englands !  How  will  kings 
be  abased  before  the  patient  husbandmen  who 
added  a  new  grain  to  man's  store  of  food  ;  and 
how  will  the  greatest  soldiers  be  forgotten  in 
the  presence  of  the  unpraised  courage  of  tra- 
vellers who  have  brought  garden  tribute  from 
farthermost  isles  to  our  shores !  How  will  the 
wealth  that  ordered  vast  pleasaunces  pale  before 
the  love  that  kept  a  geranium  alive  in  the  base- 
ment of  a  city's  slum  ;  or  the  blended  thoughts 
that  sanctify  the  bit  of  flower-bed  in  front  of  the 
hut  of  an  Iceland  fisherman  !  How  we  shall 
rejoice  to  see  the  old  herbalists,  whose  books 
are  such  mines  of  delight,  and  how  we  shall 
honour  the  monks  and  nuns  who  kept  the 
gentle  art  alive  through  warring  ages  ! 

Now  that  the  nights  are  long  again  I  begin 
to  feel  anew  how  great  is  my  debt  to  the  writers 
of  the  "books  on  gardening"  which  are  so 
many  that  in  any  well-ordered  library  they 
require  a  department  all  to  themselves.  There 
has  never  yet  been  one  that  was  wholly  stupid, 
nor  will  there  be,  since  how  can  a  book  be 


NOVEMBER  249 

wholly  dull  whose  pages  are  set  with  the  words 
which  must  be  set  there  over  and  over — lily, 
rose,  shadow,  sunlight,  April,  September ! 
It  makes  me  have  but  scanty  patience  until 
my  book  too  is  admitted  to  the  outermost 
fringes  of  so  delightful  a  companionship,  and 
I  set  forth  my  white-paper  thoughts  all  the 
more  confidently  and  gladly  because  between 
them  lie  so  much  that  I  have  inherited  from 
their  store. 

In  the  twilight  the  Pleiades  are  shining,  and 
the  great  suns  of  Orion  are  rising,  so  that  I 
know  November  is  here.  I  make  haste  to 
blot  out  all  that  I  said  of  the  other  months, 
save  April  only,  and  declare  that  this  is  the 
year's  high  holiday.  Its  colours  alone  will  I 
wear,  as  I  set  forth  to  do  battle  in  its  praise. 
"  November  hath  an  evil  name  in  sooth ! " 
cries  one,  "  and  as  for  its  garden — it  hath  no 
garden."  The  more  need  of  a  champion,  dear 
and  true  ! — since  thou  art  so  belied  ! 

When  we  look  back  to  May  we  remember 
the  haste  we  made  to  be  glad  because  of  the 
perfecting  of  young  leaves.  Why  is  there  not 
an  equal  rejoicing  in  the  first  days  of  the  bare 
boughs  ?  We  realise  with  a  shock  of  remem- 


250        A   WHITE-PAPER  GARDEN 

brance  how  infinitely  beautiful  they  are,  and 
how  again  all  things  are  become  new,  now  that 
the  ripened  leaves  have  fallen,  and  the  trees 
stand  forth  against  the  sunset  in  all  their  simple 
dignity  and  strength. 

"There  it  stands,"  said  the  Autocrat,  "leaf- 
ing out  hopefully  in  April  as  if  it  were  trying 
in  its  dumb  language  to  lisp  '  Our  Father,'  and 
dropping    its    slender    burden    of    foliage   in 
October   as   softly  as    if  it   were    whispering 
'  Amen  ! ' '      The    temptation    to  quote    men's 
tributes  to  trees  is  very  strong.    They  are  God's 
kindly  thoughts  written  in  green  for  summer 
to  spell  out,  and  drawn  in  brown  and  grey  lines 
for   easy   reading  lessons   against    the  snows. 
November  trees  are  neither,  taken  as  a  whole, 
for  while  most  of  the  deciduous  brotherhood 
have   accepted  the  warnings  of  the  frost,  the 
oaks  are  in  their  glory,  enriching  the  garments 
of  the  ripened  year  with  a  stiff  embroidery  of 
splendid  colouring,  as  the  vestments  of  some 
great  ecclesiastic  are  heavy  with  bullion-work 
and  pearls. 

These  are  the  days  of  the  frank  avowal  of 
the  secrets  of  the  nests  of  birds.  Who  knew 
that  on  the  tip  of  the  maple  bough  hung  the 


NOVEMBER  251 

cuplike  nest  of  the  vireo?  Who  guessed 
that  high  in  the  elm  the  oriole  had  hung  his 
tossing  cradle  ?  A  walk  across  the  lawn  will 
convince  one  that  he  is  not  its  only  tenant, 
nor  has  he  the  fairest  lodging  or  the  nimblest 
air. 

It  is  in  the  early  November  that  we  recover 
our  joy  in  the  forgotten  beauty  of  the  ever- 
greens. When  beechen  leaves  were  unfolding 
we  did  not  notice  how  the  pines  were  pushing 
out  whorls  of  delicate  needles ;  and  when  we 
were  absorbed  in  the  waving  of  green  birch 
boughs  we  did  not  mark  the  firs  or  the  hem- 
locks. Now  they  are  old  friends,  welcomed 
back,  and  richer  for  the  experience  of  another 
summer. 

There  is  no  need  to  care  if  the  garden  is 
hidden  by  the  fallen  maple  leaves,  for  the  day 
of  the  red  oaks  is  not  here  until  All  Saints' 
Summer  has  come.  Then  what  compares  with 
the  soft  reds  and  crimsons  and  purples  and 
browns,  softened  and  mellowed  by  the  ineffable 
haze  of  Indian  summer  ?  Seen  across  a  marsh, 
all  brown  with  wasted  grasses,  or  grey  with 
plumes  of  seeded  goldenrod,  and  below  a  sky, 
soft,  distant,  pale,  there  is  no  vista  more  to  be 


252        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

desired  as  closing  out  the  world  at  the  orchard's 
end. 

"  One  thousand  of  delytes  are  in  an  orchard, 
and  sooner  shall  I  be  weary  than  I  can  reckon 
the  last  part  of  that  pleasure  which  one  that 
hath  and  loves  an  orchard  may  find  therein," 
wrote  William  Lawson  three  hundred  years 
ago.  And  he  would  have  men  follow  the 
custom  which  yet  obtains  in  the  Tyrol,  and 
order  all  newly  married  pairs  to  plant  trees. 
A  very  paradise  his  orchard  must  have  been, 
for  he  would  have  in  it  beside  apples  and 
cherries,  medlars  and  apricots,  bees,  "cleanly 
and  innocent  bees,"  and  he  would  have  birds 
and  running  water — "  And  in  mine  opinion  I 
could  highly  recommend  your  Orchard  if 
thorow  it  or  hard  by  it  should  runne  a  pleasant 
River  with  silver  stremes.  .  .  .  And  one  chief 
grace  that  adorns  an  Orchard  I  cannot  let 
slip,  a  broode  of  nightingales,  who,  with 
their  several  notes  and  themes,  with  a  strong 
delightsome  voyse  out  of  a  weak  body  will 
bear  you  company  night  and  day." 

I  think  Izaak  Walton  would  have  loved  this 
garden,  and  Sir  Thomas  Overbury  and  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  who  were  I  am  sure  good 


NOVEMBER  253 

gardeners,  as  all  good  men  would  be  if  Fates 
were  kind. 

The  "broode"  of  nightingales  would  doubt- 
less be  silent  when  November  came,  even  in 
nightingale  land,  but  for  us,  who  can  say 

"  I  am  at  one  with  all  the  kinsman  things 
That  e'er  my  Father  fathered," 

it  is  no  bad  exchange  to  see  the  blue  jays 
flitting  among  the  moss-grown  boughs,  or  to 
see  a  small  owl  fare  forth  into  the  silent  dusk. 
An  owl  belongs  to  an  orchard.  I  can  think  of 
them  as  being  nowhere  else.  Perhaps  that  is 
because  there  were  owls  complaining  to  the 
moon  that  shone  through  the  orchard  trees  at 
grandfather's,  and  because  to  that  lost  Eden 
my  homesick  thoughts  so  often  fly. 

"  Was  it  always  Spring  in  the  long-ago, 
At  grandfather's  ? 

Was  the  orchard  hid  always  in  rosy  snow  ; 
In  its  shades  did  the  violets  always  grow, 
While  blackbirds  paced,  with  crests  aglow 
Under  the  pines  where  softest  winds 
Rocked  the  cradle  of  baby  bird, 
To  tunes  the  sweetest  ever  heard  ? 
Tunes  that  come  to  my  longing  ears, 
Over  the  silence  of  many  years, 
From  grandfather's  ! 


254        A   WHITE-PAPER    GARDEN 

"  Was  it  always  Summer,  there,  of  old, 
At  grandfather's? 

Were  wheatfields  always  a  sea  of  gold  ? 
Were  meadows  but  carpets  gay,  unrolled 
For  the  frolic  winds  to  toss  and  fold  ? 
'Mid  oat-sheaves  ripe,  did  shy  quails  pipe 
While  shadow  and  sunshine  went  and  came, 
With  a  glory  that  never  was  twice  the  same  ? 
On  grateful  leaves  were  the  warm  rains  wept 
While  over  the  prairie  the  dim  dusk  crept 
To  grandfather's  ? 

"Was  it  always  Autumn  in  those  fair  days 
At  grandfather's  ? 

Were  the  woods  for  ever  a  golden  blaze 
Of  light,  half-hidden  by  amber  haze, 
Through  which  we  walked  enchanted  ways, 
Over  grasses  green,  over  glistening  sheen 
Of  fallen  leaves,  where  the  cup-moss  grew, 
And  the  crisp  rime  lay  in  the  place  of  dew  ? 
Were  there  always  scents  as  of  ripened  stores 
Of  corns  and  fruits,  from  the  granery  doors 
At  grandfather's  ? 

"  Was  it  always  Winter — cold  and  white 
At  grandfather's  ? 

Did  suns  set  always  in  crimson  light, 
And  stars  come,  silent,  far  and  bright 
To  make  more  fair  the  cloudless  night  ? 
Where  pine-trees  bold  fenced  out  the  cold 
Was  there  ever  a  light  like  the  light  that  glowed 
From  the  ruddy  pane  down  the  snowy  road, 
Where  the  warm  fire  touched  the  welcoming  face, 
That  gave  to  winter  its  tenderest  grace 
At  grandfather's  ? 


NOVEMBER  255 

"  Are  those  days  all  past,  or  all  before 
Us,  Grandfather? 

Where  you  are  now — on  that  blessed  shore — 
Do  they  wait  with  you,  those  days  of  yore — 
In  the  Land  where  change  comes  never  more  ? 
Shall  we  find  them  stored,  that  precious  hoard ! 
Summers  and  winters,  falls  and  springs, 
Snowfalls  and  harvests  and  blossomings — 
Babyhood,  childhood,  budding  youth, 
Innocence,  happiness — love  and  truth, 
And  you,  Grandfather?" 

I  seem  to  have  come  to  the  farthermost  metes 
and  bounds  of  the  garden  since  I  have  planted 
a  red-oak  forest  beyond  a  stretch  of  marshland, 
and  a  deep-bosomed  orchard,  and  not  a  word 
have  I  said  of  my  flowers.  And  even  now  I 
can  come  no  farther  than  the  hedge,  since  I 
must  have  a  hedge  of  the  native  thorns  which 
were  white  in  May  and  now  are  red  with  the 
small  sour  haws  beloved  by  boys  and  birds. 
Over  certain  haws  the  feathery  clematis  must 
toss  her  grey  seed  clusters,  and  over  others 
the  bittersweet  must  twist  his  tight  cordage 
covered  with  brilliant  berries.  Some  wahoos 
must  grow  in  the  corner,  because  of  their  gay 
three-cornered  hats,  and  there  must  be  some 
barberries  threaded  over  with  jewels.  On  one 
side  of  the  place  tall  privets  must  shut  out  winds 


256        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

that  freeze  and  thaw  ;  arches  may  be  cut  in 
these,  to  give  views  across  the  orchard,  and 
to  admit  more  clearly  the  singing  of  the 
orchard  brook.  Another  opening,  carefully  led 
up  to  by  a  path,  parts  the  thorns  to  show 
the  rounded  purple  woodland  beyond  the  fields. 

Now  is  the  solitary  reign  of  the  chrysan- 
themum, the  golden  flower  which  art  has 
coaxed  into  wearing  many  colours  beside  the 
name  one.  It  is  the  glory  of  the  mighty  race 
of  the  composites,  and  it  seems  as  if  man  and 
nature  had  conspired  to  make  the  year's  last 
flower  the  crown  of  all  flowerings.  I  do  not 
care  for  the  great  overgrown,  florist's  chrysan- 
themum, those  fringed  and  curled  darlings  of 
the  urban  heart.  In  my  garden  I  would  not 
even  plant  those  half-tender  varieties  which 
in  some  long-deferred  Indian  summer  perfect 
themselves  in  the  open  brook.  Plants,  as 
well  as  men,  are  noble  only  in  proportion  to 
their  trustworthiness,  and  good  intentions  not 
rounded  into  fulfilment  are  as  fatal  in  the 
vegetable  kingdom  as  elsewhere. 

The  praises  of  the  chrysanthemums  that 
I  love  are  not  sounded  in  floral  catalogues, 
nor  have  the  flowers  themselves  ever  thought 


NOVEMBER  257 

of  showing  their  faces  among  the  ruffling 
gentry  of  a  show.  Creped,  cupped,  quilled, 
curled,  frosted,  inverted,  reverted  —  I  had 
almost  said  perverted — the  florists  have  done 
their  best — or  their  worst — for  the  chrysan- 
themum of  Commerce,  but  there  is,  happily, 
another  type,  which  belongs  to  older,  simpler 
days,  untouched  by  the  modern  spirits  of 
greed  and  ostentation,  and  sweet  with  a 
tender  idealism.  These  are  the  true  golden 
flowers. 

Under  sunward  eaves  of  grey  farmhouses, 
along  the  grape  arbours  of  village  yards,  close 
to  boundary  fences,  and  in  country  burying 
gounds,  everywhere  where  a  certain  unworldly 
kind  of  women  yet  linger,  the  hardy  old  friends 
still  thrive.  All  summer  their  grey  leaves 
have  grown  unnoticed  among  the  poppies  and 
cornflowers,  and  suddenly,  after  the  marigolds 
have  been  touched  by  the  first  light  frost,  the 
little  bushes  announce  an  uncounted  store  of 
tight  little  buds  which  grow  and  grow  through 
the  long,  still,  hazy  days,  as  if  they  and  the 
frost  were  running  a  race  for  some  unseen 
goal.  How  we  used  to  lean  over  the  borders 
and  watch  them !  Was  the  mercury  falling  ? 
R 


258        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

Were  there  clouds  in  the  evening  sky,  or  was 
there  that  frost-presaging  clarity  of  the 
atmosphere  through  which  Aldebaran  seemed 
but  a  light  on  a  watch-tower  and  Vega,  far 
westering,  a  sapphire  which  an  earthly  king 
might  almost  seize  and  wear  ?  Shall  we  stretch 
a  length  of  cheese  cloth  on  some  light  poles 
to  protect  our  loved  ones  ?  The  friend  who 
gave  me  that  yellow  flower  tipped  with  bronze 
used  always  to  pin  newspapers  over  hers  on 
threatening  nights,  and  many  a  time,  in  old 
village  gardens,  I  have  seen  enswarthements 
of  blue  gingham  aprons  about  the  bushes, 
which  would,  I  know,  far  gladlier  have  died 
in  a  valiant  hand-to-hand  encounter  with  the 
advancing  foe  than  to  have  their  lives  pro- 
longed by  such  humiliating  means.  It  is  an 
involuntary  tribute  to  its  value  that  so  many 
pains  are  taken  to  prolong  the  day  of  the 
flower. 

In  almost  every  year  there  comes  a  day, 
well  on  in  November,  when  the  garden  is  again 
the  haunt  of  perfect  loveliness.  From  many 
other  gardens  where  the  loose-petalled  beauties 
have  dwelt  from  time  out  of  mind,  the  feast  has 
been  gathered.  There  are  yellow  flowers, 


NOVEMBER  259 

great,  soft  yellows,  of  the  colour  no  other 
flower  ensnares,  and  a  bitter  pungency  all  its 
own.  There  are  pinks,  soft,  dull  pinks,  with 
white  or  grey  in  their  high  lights  and  copper- 
red  in  their  shadows.  There  are  browns  which 
are  orange  also,  when  we  come  to  the  last 
analysis,  and  whites  which  are  greys,  and 
greens,  and  yellows  as  well.  Ah,  what  colour ! 
what  fragrance !  And  what  abundance !  Not 
a  stalk  can  be  found  which  would  think  of 
offering  a  single  niggardly  flower.  Threes, 
sixes,  or  even  tens,  that  is  their  idea  of  a 
proper  stalk.  It  is  true  that  they  have  a  trick 
of  lolling,  face  downward,  on  the  grass,  which 
is  annoying  when  we  feel  that  the  loss  of  even 
a  single  blossom  from  the  garden  picture  is  an 
appreciable  one.  It  is  not  hard  to  train  them 
against  some  simple  lattice,  or  to  unpainted 
stakes  so  slight  that  they  need  not  suggest  a 
lumber  yard.  They  do  best  laced  back  to  a 
hedge  or  a  shrubbery,  but  they  also  grow 
excellently  close  to  the  foundations  of  a  house, 
and  they  are  inconceivably  lovely  when  they 
overhang  a  bank,  or  tumble  like  a  fountain  of 
coloured  fire  down  a  little  hill  slope.  The 
main  point  is  to  have  enough  of  them ;  to 


i6o        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

plant  them  in  masses,  and  in  places  where  the 

sun, 

"the  gardener  of  the  world," 

can  visit  them  all  day  long. 

If  I  complain  of  the  languid  airs  of  these 
larger  flowered  varieties,  no  fault  can  be  found 
with  the  pompons.  Strong,  soldierly  fellows, 
in  gayest  uniform,  with  every  button  polished, 
and  every  buckle  bright,  they  march  through 
the  breach  made  by  the  falling  of  their  summer 
comrades,  and  literally  keep  their  colours  flying, 
and  the  bright  music  of  their  cheers  ringing 
until  they  are  overborne  at  the  last,  and  die 
the  death  of  heroes.  There  is  no  flower  so 
courageous  except  the  snowdrop. 

As  the  chrysanthemums  open,  and  we  realise 
that  they  are  the  last  flower  we  can  hope  to 
gather,  unless  it  be  a  handful  of  Christmas 
roses,  we  begin  to  plan  how  best  to  prolong 
their  life  after  cutting.  One  way  is  to  clip  off  the 
long  stems  of  buds,  plunge  them  in  deep,  wide- 
mouthed  jars  filled  with  water,  and  placed  in  a 
cool,  well-lighted  room.  Here  the  flowers  will 
perfect  themselves  a  week  or  ten  days  after 
those  left  uncut  in  the  garden,  and  from  this 
store  vases  can  be  arranged  at  leisure. 


NOVEMBER  261 

The  Japanese  have  an  elaborate  system  of 
flower  arrangement;  one  so  complicated  indeed, 
and  so  far-reaching  in  its  relation  to  the  life 
and  religion,  the  history  and  the  poetry  of  the 
people,  that  a  course  of  study  in  the  art  covers 
at  least  two  years.  Volumes  have  been  written 
to  explain  the  theories  and  to  illustrate  the 
rules  which  govern  the  disposition  of  cut 
flowers,  which  rules  are,  after  all,  only  a 
comprehension  and  application  of  what  is 
everywhere  an  open  secret.  The  Japanese 
have  made  so  close  a  study  of  Nature  that 
they  have  necessarily  come  into  especially 
intimate  relations  with  her,  and  a  certain  grace 
and  poetry  which  is  evident  in  everything  they 
touch  has  taught  them  to  use  common  things 
in  uncommon  ways,  and  so  makes  them  the 
teachers  of  our  less  sensitive  selves. 

In  a  very  true  sense,  according  to  the  inter- 
preters of  Dai  Nippon,  a  flower  suffers  loss 
and  even  degradation  by  being  cut  at  all,  and 
is  much  better  seen  in  the  open.  Hence  the 
high  holidays  of  the  cherry-viewing,  and  the 
feasts  in  honour  of  the  iris,  the  scarlet  maple, 
and  other  queens-regnant  of  summer.  Since 
habit  has  given  leave  to  cut  them,  and  certain 


262        A  WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

domestic  occasions  seem  to  demand  their 
assistance,  it  is  permitted  to  use  them  only 
under  conditions  best  suited  to  them,  and 
hence  the  elaborate  ceremonial  attending  the 
placing  of  a  single  flower. 

To  the  sick  it  is  permitted  to  send  a  blossom 
having  strong  growth,  preferably  one  having 
a  woody  stem,  such  being  symbolic  of  health  ; 
of  longevity. 

Flowers  to  be  used  on  occasions  of  farewell 
must  be  chosen  from  those  bearing  blossoms 
oftener  than  once  a  year,  thus  implying  a 
speedy  reunion. 

A  costly  flower,  or  one  whose  possession 
necessarily  indicates  wealth,  is  not  desired. 
A  blossom  is  a  thing  too  sacred  to  be  as- 
sociated with  money,  or  ostentation,  nor  may 
"  the  foot  of  pride  come  near  it." 

Only  seasonable  flowers  may  be  used  :  those 
forced  at  great  labour  or  cost  are,  in  spite  of 
their  loveliness,  touched  by  vulgarity,  and 
anything  like  the  use  of  flowers  in  masses  is 
distinctly  to  be  avoided. 

If  a  flower  is  particularly  choice,  no  other 
may  be  displayed  in  the  same  apartment. 
Only  inferior  sorts  may  be  used  together,  and 


NOVEMBER  263 

there  is  never  even  a  suggestion  of  what  is 
occidentally  known  as  a  bouquet.  All  of  the 
refinement  and  fastidiousness  of  the  orient 
would  shrink  from  the  display  of  our  western 
dinner  or  ball,  our  church  festivals,  and  still 
more,  from  our  funerals. 

The  stem  is  considered  to  be  of  equal  de- 
corative value  with  the  flower.  Is  it  not  curved 
and  tinted  and  branched,  and  set  with  buds 
or  thorns  or  tendrils,  with  a  care  equal  to  that 
given  to  the  blossom  ?  And  does  not  Nature 
know  best  what  foliage  is  suited  to  it  ?  There- 
fore let  none  but  its  own  be  placed  near  the 
flower,  unless  one  is  chosen  for  the  frank 
reason  of  contrast. 

The  blossoms  of  a  hardy  or  woody  stemmed 
plant  are  never  to  be  associated  with  those  of 
a  tender  or  succulent  stemmed  variety. 

Flowers  of  hill  and  valley  may  never  be  com- 
bined, nor  may  a  water  plant  and  a  shore  plant 
be  brought  together. 

Under  no  circumstances  may  exotic  and 
native  flowers  be  used  together. 

Colours  and  textures  must  be  thoughtfully 
studied. 

The  vase  or  jug  in  which  the  flower  is  to 


264        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

be  displayed  is  to  be  carefully  chosen  with  re- 
lation to  the  position,  and  space  it  is  to  occupy, 
and  the  blossom  is  to  hold.  There  can  never 
be  an  excuse  for  the  use  of  a  vessel  of  choice 
porcelain  or  glass.  Such  things  are  works  of 
art,  and  must  never  be  degraded  from  their 
own  high  mission.  Besides,  to  use  would  be 
to  endanger  such  possession,  and  it  is  desecra- 
tion to  ruin  the  work  of  an  artist.  Coarse 
pottery,  good  in  shape  and  colour,  may  under 
certain  conditions  bear  some  simple  suggestions 
in  line  by  way  of  decoration,  but  plain  surfaces 
are  in  better  taste.  Vases  of  clear,  heavy  glass 
are  desirable  as  giving  the  beholder  the  added 
pleasures  afforded  by  stems  and  water.  This 
glass  must  be  extremely  plain  in  design. 
Metal  holders  are  to  be  used  for  boughs,  never 
for  delicate  flowers. 

The  surface  of  the  water  in  the  receptacle  is 
imagined  to  be  the  soil  from  which  the  flower 
is  growing,  and  nothing  but  the  close  observa- 
tion of  the  living  plant  will  give  the  student  a 
sympathetic  understanding  of  the  direction  and 
height  to  be  given  the  cut  flowers.  Nothing 
may  be  left  to  chance,  and  so  many  devices 
have  been  thought  out  by  which  exact  position 


NOVEMBER  265 

can  be  obtained  and  kept.  Coils  of  lead  cut 
into  spirals  and  dropped  into  the  jar  give  it 
weight,  and  offer  many  interstices  for  the  stems. 
Little  lattices,  curved  or  in  squares,  are  made 
of  bamboo  splints,  sunken  just  below  the  water 
line,  then  drawn  up  to  it,  and  held  in  place, 
while  the  swelling  caused  by  the  water  wedges 
them  safely  into  place.  This  treatment  would 
be  unsafe  for  anything  but  thick  pottery  or 
glass.  Pieces  of  wood,  bored  with  holes  of 
irregular  sizes,  are  wedged  into  the  jars  by  the 
same  means.  A  device  of  Miss  Jeykll's  has 
given  us  the  same  solidity  and  support,  with 
no  danger  or  trouble,  she  having  invented  a 
thick  disc  of  very  heavy  glass,  pierced  with 
holes,  into  which  the  stems  may  be  readily 
inserted.  A  piece  of  wire  netting  is  often  laid 
over  the  top  of  a  broad  bowl,  and  for  temporary 
use,  and  very  small  flowers,  a  circle  of  paste- 
board pierced  by  a  stiletto  holds  its  frail 
burden  prettily. 

Plants  with  pendulous  blossoms  must  be 
hung,  or  placed  on  a  shelf  from  which  they 
look  down  upon  the  beholders.  Small  and 
delicate  flowers  must  be  placed  on  low  tables 
or  stools,  so  that  they  can  be  gazed  at  from 


266        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

above.  If  the  room  contain  a  particularly  fine 
painting  or  hanging,  the  principal  lines  of  the 
flower-arrangement  must  point  toward  it. 

The  height  of  the  cut  bough  must  exceed 
that  of  the  holder,  one  and  one-half  times  if  a 
tall  jar  and  long  branches  are  to  be  used.  For 
a  low  bo  vl,  the  bough  bearing  the  blossom 
chosen  must  exceed  the  width  of  the  holder 
one  and  one-half  times.  No  more  flowers  may 
ever  be  used  than  can  be  displayed  as  indi- 
viduals, although  it  is  of  course  permissible 
and  even  desirable  that  one  or  more  be  placed 
in  perspective  to  suggest  mystery,  distance, 
reserve. 

See  how  much  poetry  as  well  as  how  much 
sound  sense  lies  in  this  brief  summary  of  the 
easiest  of  those  golden  rules  that  have  been 
thought  out  so  patiently  and  so  long  ago ! 
Blessings  without  number  are  promised  those 
who  practise  them,  and  why  not  ?  Economy, 
humility,  patience,  reverence — these  are  the 
virtues  they  teach.  Taste,  grace,  ideality  of 
form,  appreciation  of  colour,  knowledge  of  the 
habits  and  habitats  of  plants,  delicacy  of 
perception — these  are  the  pleasant  fruits  of 
the  study. 


NOVEMBER  267 

I  like  to  keep  my  own  flower  holders  on  a 
shelf  of  their  own,  and  am  always  on  the  look- 
out for  recruits,  although  these  are  chosen 
slowly,  as  I  choose  my  friends.  There  is  an 
ancient  bowl  of  Russian  copper-work  which 
has  nothing  to  do  until  nasturtiuns  are  in 
bloom,  and  then  it  overflows  with  them  until 
the  last  one  falls  before  the  frost.  There  is  a 
tall  brass  jug  for  Queen  Anne's  lace,  and  for 
wild  asters.  Winter  boughs  of  red  or  black 
berries  go  into  it,  and  it  has  seen  daffodils. 
A  tall  Chinese  cylinder  of  dull  pink  and 
green  holds  sometimes  white  chrysanthemums, 
and  sometimes  some  wild  grasses,  and  the 
dark  pods  of  the  false  indigo  ;  and  a  turquoise- 
blue  ginger  jar  overlaid  with  coarse  bamboo- 
work  comes  down  when  the  poets'  narcissus 
calls  for  it,  and  again  when  China  asters  are 
gay  in  September.  Roses  and  daffodils  glow 
and  burn  in  tall  glass  vases,  and  I  miss  no 
glimpse  of  their  stems  or  stalks,  and  a  coarse 
Mexican  pitcher  in  dull  orange  lives  only  to 
hold  marigolds.  There  is  a  little  blue-and- 
grey  Flemish  mug  which  never  held  anything 
but  the  pink  polyanthus  of  April,  and  a  tall, 
flaring  vase  of  Allerdale  ware  in  soft  green 


268        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

which  is  sacred  to  violets.  Tall  glasses  which 
come  from  that  haven  of  thrifty  poverty,  the 
ten-cent  store  ;  a  Grueby  bowl,  a  Dedham 
plate  for  the  flat  bouquets  I  love  to  arrange 
in  hollyhock  time,  all  these  stand  on  the  shelf. 
None  of  them  have  any  special  value,  but  all 
are  good  work-a-day  friends,  giving  me  service 
when  I  ask  it,  and  keeping  fresh  and  fair  the 
remembrance  of  the  blossoms  they  have  held, 
long  after  the  blossoms  themselves  are  gone, 
in  a  way  no  vase  could  possibly  do  were  it 
used  indiscriminately  for  whatever  flower  might 
chance  to  be  mine. 

After  all,  our  gardens  mean  more  or  less  to  j 
us  as  we  have  more  or  fewer  associations 
connected  with  them  and  their  fair  denizens. 
I  have  long  held  a  most  unorthodox  pity  in 
my  heart  for  Adam  and  Eve,  since  in  Eden 
there  was  no  chance  for  him  to  ask,  "  Do  you 
remember?"  or  for  her  to  question,  "Have 
you  forgotten  ? "  Roses  were  only  roses  to 
them,  not  links  with  that  which  had  been. 
Violets  and  lilies  were  nothing  but  lilies  and 
violets,  not  personalities  who  had  known  love 
and  death,  and  so  not  a  part  of  their  inner- 
most selves.  The  walks  were  not  haunted 


NOVEMBER  269 

by  beloved  wraiths,  and  the  shaded  glades 
held  no  memories,  sweet  or  bitter.  What  if 
our  own  gardens  were  effaced  each  year  by 
the  snows,  and  bore  each  spring  new  flowers  ? 
What  if  there  were  no  daffodils,  no  lilacs, 
but  only  gorgeous  scented  strangers  ?  No  one, 
I  take  it,  would  then  care  to  plant  even  a 
White-paper  Garden  ! 


- 


DECEMBER 


With  whisper  and  rustle,  and  start  and  hush, 

The  dry  leaves  murmur  in  tree  and  bush. 

On  sombre  pines,  with  boughs  bent  low, 

Forsaken  nests  are  piled  with  snow. 

The  chick-a-dees,  alert  for  seeds, 

Chatter  and  cling  to  the  swaying  weeds. 

The  snow  drifts  deep  in  the  country  ways  ; 

And  short  and  cold  are  the  dreary  days. 

Yet  fair  on  the  brow  of  the  frozen  night 

The  Christmas  Star  gleams  large  and  bright ! 


DECEMBER 
THE  HUNTER'S  MOON 

TT  is  the  Shortest  Day.     It  is  Sunday  also. 

Even  in  the  farthermost  solitudes  the  day 
announces  itself  by  the  strange  harmony  into 
which  the  light  blends  all  that  is  of  earth  with 
all  that  is  not.  The  whole  world  takes  on  a 
softer  aspect,  as  if  it  knew  that  some  gracious 
and  beautiful  gift  were  being  given  to  all 
created  things.  The  sky  takes  on  a  more 
benignant  aspect  than  on  other  days,  the  wind 
speaks  with  a  gentler  voice,  and  has  a  gentler 
touch.  Fields  stretch  away  to  far  blue  hills  as 
if  a  deeper  peace  lay  upon  them,  and  the  trees 
stand  in  more  solemn  patience,  as  they  submit 
to  the  Over  Fate  which  has  taken  away  their 
leaves  and  bidden  them  make  ready  for  storm- 
time. 

On  the  grey  boughs  empty  nests  are  swing- 
ing.   The  last  thistle-plume  eddies  through  the 
hollow  at  the  will  of  a  vagrant  wind,  in  whose 
s  273 


174        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

spiral  dance  wise  eyes  can  read  a  change  of 
weather.  The  last  red  leaf  drifts  helplessly 
hedgeward  and  is  lost  in  the  briary  tangle 
already  full  of  those  lightly  blown  grasses 
known  to  country  folk  as  "  Limber  Well." 
Everywhere  there  is  snow.  The  lightest- 
footed  bird  has  left  the  imprint  of  his  presence 
upon  it ;  the  slenderest  bent-grass  has  cut  its 
shadow  there  with  a  line  so  fine  and  clear  that 
no  modern  painter  could  ever  hope  to  repro- 
duce it,  and  which  leads  us  back  to  the  days 
when  the  missal  painters  sat  humbly  at  the 
feet  of  the  Teacher  of  the  grasses !  Under 
drifts  blue  caves  allure  the  fancy.  Evergreens 
are  heavy  with  the  same  white  burden  of  trans- 
figuring purity  that  curves  the  furrows  in  the 
field  into  a  resemblance  too  poignant  to  be 
ignored. 

"  Once  for  each  Son  the  kind  Earth-Mother  grieves  : 
For  each,  one  soft  sigh  shudders  through  her  breast 
Once  for  each  one  :  and  every  low  sigh  leaves 
Another  grave  wherein  is  perfect  rest." 

The  year's  work  is  over  at  last.  There  is 
nothing  to  do,  even  in  a  White-paper  Garden. 
Through  the  long  day  we  have  toiled,  and 
now  the  night  is  coming,  when  Mother  Nature 


DECEMBER  275 

will  gather  us  into  her  arms  and  croon  a  bed- 
time song.  Softly,  gently,  almost  impercept- 
ibly she  has  already  gathered  the  greater 
number  of  her  children  in,  and  has  tucked 
them  away  under  the  white  blanket.  She  has 
given  each  one  a  dream  for  company,  and  now 
she  is  waiting  to  hear  what  I  have  done  in  my 
garden  days  with  my  one  poor  little  talent, 
before  I,  too,  get  the  kiss  and  the  dream  and 
go  to  sleep. 

To  begin  with  the  Omissions. 

I  have  not  said  a  word  about  a  water 
garden,  and  yet  I  have  known  all  along  that 
nothing  is  more  satisfactory  than  even  a  little 
pool  in  which  the  birds  may  bathe  and  drink, 
and  wherein  the  blue  sky,  looking  down 
between  the  leaves,  may  peep  at  the  reflection 
there  half  hidden  by  the  lilies.  As  perfume  is 
the  soul  of  the  flower,  so  water  is  the  soul  of 
the  landscape,  and  its  presence  in  the  garden 
is  an  unalloyed  delight.  A  cemented  pool 
need  not  overtax  a  very  modest  purse,  and 
there  are  so  many  lovely  water  lilies  and  lotus 
and  bamboos  ready  to  grow  in  it,  and  so  many 
obliging  minnows  and  goldfish  ready  to  keep 
it  sweet,  that  it  seems  a  pity  that  instead  of 


276        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

providing  one,  now  that  the  eleventh  hour  is 
long  past,  I  am  not  now  describing  the  twelfth 
of  a  series.  The  chief  precaution  to  be  taken, 
if  stones  or  mortars  be  resorted  to,  is  that  there 
be  no  regular  shape  to  it  and  no  sharply  defined 
outline.  There  are  ferns  enough,  and  iris 
enough,  and  grasses  and  trailing  things  enough, 
to  make  the  garden  and  the  pool  themselves 
unconscious  where  one  ends  and  the  other 
begins.  Here,  as  everywhere,  the  absolute 
necessity  of  a  background  of  shrubs  presents 
itself,  and  perhaps  near  here,  if  ever,  a  formal 
seat  may  be  admitted.  I  like  the  garden 
furniture  which  can  be  easily  moved  about, 
wicker  chairs  and  tables,  camp-stools,  and  so 
on,  and  have  never  yet  found  pleasure  in  the 
ordinary  garden  seat,  which  has  usually  a  bit 
of  bare  ground  in  front  of  it,  a  most  uncom- 
promising back,  and  a  very  unfortunate  habit 
of  being  in  the  sun  just  when  shade  would  be 
particularly  agreeable. 

I  have  not  said  a  word  about  the  way  in 
which  the  house  should  be  made  one  with  the 
garden.  Houses  we  must  have,  whether  we 
like  them  or  not,  and  although  they  often  take 
up  space  which  it  would  be  very  agreeable  to 


DECEMBER  277 

devote  to  other  uses,  and  since  they  are  here, 
it  is  a  matter  of  first  importance  to  make  them 
agree  with  the  more  important  part  of  the 
place  as  best  we  can.  A  house  needs  the  re- 
fining and  softening  effect  of  creepers  and 
trailers  almost  as  much  as  it  needs  a  roof,  and 
there  are  happily  so  many  to  choose  from  that 
no  wall  need  be  left  to  the  barren  ugliness  of 
plain  brick  or  boards.  For  stone  walls  the 
English  ivy  is  by  far  the  best  cover,  and  there 
is  a  climbing  euonymus  which  is  also  ever- 
green. The  Japanese  ampelopsis  is  the  third 
perfect  adornment  for  brick  or  stone.  It  is 
useless  to  try  to  grow  it  against  wood,  for 
which  the  native  grape,  the  Virginia  creeper, 
Hall's  honeysuckle  and  wisterias  are  admirably 
adapted.  There  is  a  papilionaceous  trailer  or 
climber,  the  kudzu  vine,  which  makes  the  most 
surprising  growth,  and  is  entirely  satisfactory. 
The  Dutchman's  pipe  is  good,  and  better  far  is 
the  native  bittersweet,  which  has  the  cleanest 
possible  habits.  There  is  a  wild  solanum  which 
will  cover  a  lattice  with  its  pretty  purple 
flowers,  and  its  clusters  of  brilliant  red  berries, 
but  it  must  not  be  used  if  there  are  children 
about,  who  might  be  tempted  to  eat  the  glowing 


278        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

fruit.  Cobeas,  Madeira  vines,  moonflowers, 
and  all  the  beautiful  ipomeas  and  clematis, 
with  such  roses  and  jessamine  as  endure  the 
cold,  aided  by  a  few  lengths  of  the  wire  netting 
whose  invention  was  such  a  benefaction  to  the 
world,  these  are  all  so  easy  to  get,  and  so  easy 
to  grow  that  it  ought  to  be  as  impossible  to 
find  a  house  without  its  covering  of  vines,  as  a 
child  barefoot  in  the  winter  snow. 

The  walls  being  taken  care  of,  the  angle 
formed  by  the  foundation  stone  and  the  lawns 
must  be  blotted  out  by  shrubs  and  small  trees. 
The  taller  ones  are  to  be  placed  in  the  corner, 
and  against  such  portions  of  the  wall  as  are 
windowless,  the  lesser  to  stand  under  the  win- 
dows. The  list  to  choose  from  is  exactly  as 
long  as  the  plantsman's  announcements  of  the 
wares  he  has  for  sale.  In  semi-rural  com- 
munities there  are  often  good  bushes  to  be 
had  for  the  asking,  and  these  are  usually  much 
larger  than  can  be  bought,  but  if  one  must 
buy,  field-grown  roots  at  least  two  years,  old 
should  always  be  chosen. 

For  the  northern  exposures,  laurel  and 
rhododendron  should  be  planted  in  an  irregular 
bed,  well  spaded  and  well  fertilised.  A  few 


DECEMBER  279 

low  junipers  may  be  grouped  with  these,  and 
between  the  corner  of  the  house  and  the  lawn 
or  garden,  three  or  four  hemlocks,  to  ensure 
privacy,  and  against  the  hemlocks  a  cluster  of 
white  birches.  Tall  ferns  grow  excellently  as 
neighbours  to  these  shrubs,  and  the  ground 
beneath  them  may  very  well  be  covered  by 
the  myrtle,  which  is  the  best  substitute  for  the 
undergrowths  of  the  woods. 

On  the  eastern  side  the  Japanese  euonymus 
and  the  Andromedas  are  charming,  with  Thun- 
berg's  barberry,  and  a  privet  or  two  for  height. 
Again  ferns  and  myrtle  for  ground  cover. 

On  the  south  and  west  set  the  flowering 
shrubs,  with  chrysanthemums  set  in  clumps 
between  them,  and  peonies  wherever  there  is 
a  place  for  one.  Roses  trained  to  the  wall  are 
best  seen  in  such  positions,  and  if  the  shrub 
bed  be  large  enough  to  let  some  foxgloves  or 
hollyhocks  be  set  between  the  bushes,  the 
effect  will  be  pleasant.  Cannas  are  very  often 
planted  close  to  the  walls,  and  while  they  do 
not  give  the  idea  of  permanence,  which  is  one 
of  the  things  best  worth  striving  for  in  all 
planting,  they  are  better  than  nothing. 

In  a  world  where  change  is  a  too  insistent 


28o        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

life-factor,  I  wish  it  could  enter  into  the  heart 
of  every  householder  that  it  is  his  duty  to  plant 
as  if  change  were  the  one  thing  that  would 
never  come,  and  that  to  make  the  outside  of 
his  house  attractive  is  as  much  his  duty  as 
to  pay  his  water-rates  or  poll-tax.  What  if 
the  house  is  only  a  rented  one  ?  An  ampe- 
lopsis  may  be  pulled  up  in  an  afternoon's 
ramble,  which  will  change  the  whole  aspect 
of  the  porch  against  which  it  is  set,  and  turn 
the  house  into  a  home.  If  I  were  a  Society 
for  the  Improvement  of  Public  Morals  I 
should  issue  as  Order  No.  i,  an  edict  com- 
pelling every  citizen  of  the  republic — without 
any  of  the  exemptions  of  women  and  idiots 
which  our  polite  laws  sometimes  make — to 
plant  a  tree  or  a  shrub  every  year  of  their 
lives.  If  I  were  the  Autocrat  of  all  the 
Russias,  a  ukase  should  go  forth  that,  under 
pain  of  banishment  to  some  desert  in  which 
no  scantiest  herbage  would  grow,  every 
second  tree  should  be  a  pine :  every  third 
tree  an  oak,  and  no  woman  should  be  con- 
sidered marriageable  until  she  had  six  hem- 
locks and  six  birch  -  trees  to  her  credit. 
Legacies  from  lost  uncles  in  India  should, 


DECEMBER  281 

moreover,  be  forfeited  unless  the  family  record 
in  regard  to  orchards  was  quite  clear. 

I  have  not  said  a  word  about  window  boxes, 
which  are  often  the  only  gardens  possible  to 
the  cliff  dwellers  of  modern  cities  ;  and  yet 
no  one  can  think  better  of  them  than  I. 
Little  restful  oases  to  the  tired  eyes  lifted 
toward  them  from  the  pavement ;  little  play- 
grounds for  imagination  ;  little  ports  for  gentle 
thoughts  and  memories  for  exiles  borne  like 
thistledown  on  the  winds  of  fate,  who  would 
not  see  their  tribe  increase  until  there  were 
no  boxless  windows  in  all  the  waste  of  brick 
and  mortar ! 

The  best  boxes  are  those  which  hold  many 
trailing  and  creeping  plants.  The  worst  ones, 
the  impossible  ones,  the  unpardonable  ones, 
are  those  painted  scarlet  or  green.  I  do  not 
know  why  it  has  not  been  set  down  in  the 
Acts  of  Congress  that  makers  and  vendors 
and  buyers  of  certain  paints  should  not  be 
sentenced  to  whatever  answers  to  the  galleys 
in  modern  penology.  The  makers  of  iron 
urns  and  animals  should  be  sentenced,  like- 
wise ;  but  to-day  my  business  is  with  window 
boxes,  and  the  impossibility  of  having  an 


282        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

artistic  effect  given  them  unless  the  box  itself 
recede  into  its  proper  place  by  means  of  a 
coat  of  soft  sage-colour  or  dull  brown,  or 
grey  earthy  colour,  and  so  ordained  to  ac- 
company the  living  greens  for  which  the  box 
is  made. 

It  is  hard  to  tell  one  whose  soul  longs  for 
lilies  that  it  will  be  wasted  time  and  mis- 
employed talent  which  tries  to  grow  them  in 
the  window  garden,  but  it  is  true,  and  he 
would  do  better  to  acknowledge  his  limita- 
tions and  plant  in  the  large  white  petunias 
which  adapt  themselves  so  admirably  to  the 
place  the  lilies  scorn.  White  feverfews  are 
good  box  -  plants :  so  are  the  impatiens ;  so 
are  single  geraniums.  Rose  geraniums  thrive 
well,  so  do  the  coleus,  and  the  pretty 
Maurandyra.  If  a  hanging  basket  or  two  be 
suspended  above  the  box  it  is  very  easy  to 
coax  the  trailers  above  and  the  climbers 
below  to  combine  their  attractions,  and  the 
effect  is  sure  to  be  pretty.  For  northern 
boxes  the  Boston  ferns,  asparagus  Spren- 
gerii,  the  Tradescantias,  and  almost  all  of  the 
begonias  will  be  good.  Tropaeolums  make 
good  boxes  if  nothing  else  be  expected  to 


DECEMBER  283 

share  the  soil  and  the  water,  and  for  a  short- 
lived joy  pansies  will  answer.  This  list  of 
the  plants  which  can  be  grown  successfully 
in  boxes  includes  almost  evey  available  name. 
I  would  have  been  glad  to  make  it  fuller  if 
I  could  truthfully  have  done  so. 

And  I  have  said  nothing  at  all  about  that 
very  fascinating  form  of  gardening  known  in 
rural  or  semi  -  rural  communities  as  raising 
house  plants.  As  the  world  grows  sadly 
wiser  in  its  own  conceits,  many  gentle  old 
habits  are  laid  aside,  or  are  left  for  a  few 
quiet  people  here  or  there  who  have  not  for- 
gotten the  old  ways.  To  make  ready  for  the 
long  winter  indoors,  during  the  long  summer 
outdoors,  is  with  them  a  lifelong  practice,  and 
not  the  gayest  June  parade  of  roses  can  make 
them  forget  the  shelves  set  advantageously  in 
a  sheltered  corner,  where  certain  plants  are 
carried  over  from  season  to  season,  and  where 
fresh  cuttings  are  making  ready  for  winter 
bloom.  Slips,  the  cuttings  are  called.  To  offer 
a  slip  is  a  token  of  the  highest  regard  :  to 
ask  for  one  a  sign  of  the  closest  intimacy,  if, 
indeed,  it  be  not  an  intrusion  bordering  on 
rudeness.  To  exchange  slips  is  to  enter  into 


284        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

a  solemn  league  and  covenant,  and  to  inquire 
after  the  welfare  of  these  offshoots  of  one's 
own  fuchsias  is  as  much  a  part  of  good  manners 
as  to  ask  after  Aunt  Anne.  There  is,  more- 
over, no  better  way  to  court  a  disfavour  which 
may  amount  to  social  ostracism,  than  to  neglect 
the  cuttings  once  they  have  been  accepted. 
Candid  persons  may  declare  their  utter  in- 
ability to  make  anything  grow,  and  so  escape 
with  pitying  incomprehension,  but  to  take 
upon  oneself  the  obligation  a  slip  imposes, 
and  then  to  fail ! 

I  am  sorry  that  I  said  I  did  not  like  red 
geraniums  when  I  think  how  cheerfuHy  they 
have  smiled  at  me  across  the  snow  from  many 
a  cottage  window  !  I  wish  I  had  left  unwritten 
those  ungracious  lines  about  the  coleus,  when 
I  remember  into  how  many  starved  lives  they 
bring  the  colour  of  the  stained  glass  of  old 
cathedrals  as  they  spread  their  branches  across 
the  pane.  The  little  crab-cactus  that  seemed 
such  a  bore — what  gay  little  lamps  he  has 
lighted  now  ;  and  as  for  the  cyclamen  ("  with 
their  mitrelike  flowers  they  resemble  an  oecu- 
menical council  of  fairy  bishops,"  said  Dean 
Hole),  how  could  anyone  begrudge  the  three 


DECEMBER  285 

years  of  waiting  between  seed  and  flower  when 
once  they  lift  up  their  lovely  heads !  The 
Chinese  primrose  and  the  primula  obconica 
are  good  indoor  flowers,  and  if  there  be  no  gas 
about  the  house,  all  of  the  begonias  are  inter- 
esting— now.  I  used  to  think  them  great  bores ! 
By  December,  however,  if  one  have  a  fairly 
open  mind,  one  has  grown  humble,  and  humi- 
lity is  so  great  a  virtue  that  by  its  aid  one  may 
come,  in  time,  to  bow  before  an  abutilon. 

Calla  lilies,  impatiens,  and  Dutch  bulbs, 
grown  in  pots  or  in  water,  as  you  will,  belong 
to  the  indoor  garden,  but  palms  do  not,  nor 
crotons,  nor  Norfolk  Island  pines,  nor  carna- 
tions, nor  roses,  except  a  small  pink  one,  and 
the  old  crimson  Otaheit,  nor  most  emphatically, 
india-rubber  plants.  These  are  either  green- 
house things  or  decorative  plants  that  can 
have  nothing  whatever  in  common  with  the 
tender  old  friends  for  the  sake  of  whose  green 
leaves  and  infrequent  bloom  so  much  care  is 
lavished.  How  they  are  shielded  from  frosts 
and  draughts,  how  they  are  sprayed  and 
watered  and  turned  sunward,  how  are  all  the 
pretty  devices  love  can  offer  lavished  upon 
them !  The  house  plants  always  belong  to  a 


286        A   WHITE-PAPER    GARDEN 

woman,  and  almost  always  to  a  woman  who 
has  known  sorrow. 

It  is  when  the  lamps  are  lighted  that  the 
indoor  garden  shows  its  most  poetic  side. 
Against  walls  and  curtains  they  cast  their 
shadows  of  waving  frond,  and  swaying  tendril, 
and  wide  leafage,  a  fantastic  company  to  which 
guests  might  will  be  bidden  as  to  a  feast. 

Where  are  they  gone,  the  shadows  that  I 
used  to  know  ?  Where  is  the  old  firelight,  and 
the  old  lamplight  which  called  them  into  life  ? 
Where  are  the  eyes  which  once  looked  upon 
their  beauty,  and  the  voices  which  once  praised 
their  fitful  loveliness  ?  Shadows  also  ?  Or  is 
there  another  World,  where  the  Realities  are, 
and  is  it  I  who  am  a  shadow  waiting  to  be 
born? 

The  best  winter  gardens  at  our  command  are 
those  laid  down  on  the  lines  dear  to  our 
ancestors  of  Colonial  days.  By  what  sense  of 
fitness  they  chose  the  style  of  architecture  best 
fitted  to  the  uses  of  the  States  that  were  not  but 
were  to  be,  and  the  gardens  best  suited  to  the 
architecture,  the  climate,  and  what  ought  to  be 
the  dominant  American  ideal,  I  cannot  tell, 
nor  can  I  divest  my  mind  of  an  earnest  belief 


DECEMBER  287 

that  much  that  was  direct  and  honest  and 
broad  in  the  words  and  deeds  of  their  day,  and 
the  day  of  the  young  republic,  was  learned  in 
the  stately  box  walks  that  led  up  to  the  statelier 
homes  which  the  men  of  the  eighteenth  century 
loved.  The  aristocratic  principle  noblesse  oblige 
is  the  insistent  note  in  those  houses  and 
gardens,  and  for  that  reason  they  were  the 
most  perfect  exemplification  of  the  democratic 
ideal. 

A  man  never  plants  a  red-oak  for  himself. 
It  is  his  hostage  to  a  fortunate  posterity, 
and  a  good  deed  done  without  thought  of 
personal  benefit.  He  does  not  set  out  his 
box,  or  laurel,  or  holly  without  thought  of 
others.  Every  one  he  plants  is  a  silent  affirma- 
tion in  his  belief  in  many  things — faith  in  the 
unseen  Power  which  has  directed  all  things 
from  the  beginning,  and  which  will  not  fail 
in  oversight  of  the  tree ;  faith  in  the  sun  and 
rain,  and  all  of  the  marvellous  forces  without 
which  no  smallest  seed  could  germinate  ;  faith 
that  those  who  come  after  him  will  have  his 
own  need  of  shade  and  fuel  and  refreshment 
and  beauty,  and  faith  in  the  dignity  and 
stability  of  his  country.  In  a  wide  and  deep 


288        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

sense,  the  credo  of  the  tree  planter  includes 
much  of  the  highest  religion. 

It  is  only  when  trees  are  bare  that  we  can 
see  how  beautiful  are  these  types  of  man, 
when  stripped  of  the  garments  by  which  so 
many  of  their  most  distinctive  characteristics 
are  hidden.  Were  the  leaves  always  here, 
we  should  know  little  of  the  structure  of  the 
trees  themselves,  and  our  acquaintance  with 
them  would  be  exactly  as  accurate  as  if  we 
recognised  our  closest  friends  by  certain  of 
their  coats  or  ribbons,  and  did  not  know  them 
if  they  changed  their  fashion.  Half  of  the 
beauty  of  the  beech  is  gone  when  we  cannot 
see  the  lichens  painted  on  her  grey  bole,  or 
the  network  of  her  delicate  branchings.  The 
rugged  corrugations  of  the  sassafras  -  trunks 
tell  quite  a  different  story  from  that  of  their 
leaves  and  fruits,  and  are  wholly  unlike  the 
grey  flakes  which  cover  the  hickories,  and 
the  rough  sheathings  .of  the  oaks  and  walnuts. 
The  shredded  purple  integuments  of  the  wild 
cherries  are  not  at  all  to  be  confounded  with 
the  uninteresting  garb  of  maples,  and  lindens 
and  ashes,  and  the  sycamores  have  a  world-old 
tale  printed  in  their  pale  faces.  One  lady 


DECEMBER  289 

birch,  like  the  pure  goddess  that  she  is,  cares 
so  little  for  her  raiment  that  we  can  always 
have  glimpses  of  the  warm  loveliness  of  her 
satin  skin  and  the  soft  tremblings  of  her  breath. 
Springing  in  clusters  from  old  roots,  white 
and  slender,  she  carries  us  back  to  the  old,  old 
days  and  the  old  free  forest  life  as  no  other 
tree  can  do,  and  we  see  her  giving  herself  to 
the  lost  builder  who  formed  from  it  the  one 
perfect  achievement  of  man — the  canoe — that 
lay  on  the  breast  of  forgotten  waters 

"  Like  a  yellow  leaf  in  autumn 
Like  a  yellow  water-lily." 

Beech  and  birch — the  one  holding  the  pallid 
sunshine  in  her  unfallen  leaves,  the  other 
white  and  swaying — are  the  high  lights  of  the 
winter-garden  picture,  which  require  other 
senses  than  were  needed  when  leaves  were 
green. 

If  I  could  have  choice  of  but  one  thing  to 
look  at  in  December,  it  should  be  a  hemlock- 
tree.  It  should  have  grown  in  a  space  large 
enough  to  let  it  do  what  it  liked  with  its 
boughs ;  and  toward  the  south  there  should 
be  a  slope  beneath  it,  where  some  of  the 


2  90        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

limbs  might  trail  low  for  the  snow  to  rest  on, 
and  for  the  wild  things  to  creep  under.  I 
would  not  ask  it  to  thread  itself  with  cones. 
It  would  do  that  of  itself,  for  pure  love  of 
the  tiny  drops  which  are  the  jewels  of  the 
cone -wo  rid. 

After  choice  has  been  made  of  the  conifers, 
and  the  box — the  shrubs  which  bear  persistent 
berries  are  most  to  be  desired  now  :  privet, 
Thunberg's  barberry,  black  alder,  and  a  few 
roses.  In  climates  favourable  to  the  hollies, 
there  is  no  need  to  go  further  than  their 
shining  treasures,  and  where  the  English 
ivies  will  cling  to  wall  and  to  tree  trunk, 
knotting  their  own  stems  into  little  trunks, 
as  age  comes  on,  and  spreading  their  thick 
clusters  of  green  atop,  no  one  need  ask  for 
more.  And  yet,  these  do  not  hold  the  snow 
as  well  as  the  old  mock-oranges — whose 
brown  calyces  hold  the  cold  white  crystals  in 
a  thousand  urns.  Any  shrub  whose  stems  are 
flexible  and  much-branched  is  an  invaluable 
asset  when  morning  dawns  after  a  stormy 
night. 

There  is  a  never-cloying  pleasure  in  the 
buds  in  which  next  year's  flowers  are  hibernat- 


DECEMBER  291 

ing.  The  dogwood  bears  a  great  treasure  of 
these,  and  there  is  much  to  think  of  in  the  way 
in  which  the  magnolias  hold  up  the  furry 
tapers  which  are  to  flame  out  in  white  fire 
before  April  goes.  Maples  make  no  secret  of 
their  buds,  which  are  ready  for  the  first  warm 
day  in  March,  nor  dees  the  horse-chestnut  deny 
what  it  means  to  do  with  its  large  pointed  tips. 
The  Andromeda  is  the  most  alluring  of  all 
winter-budded  growths  ;  and  one  of  the  jessa- 
mines is  so  full  of  heavenly  innocence  that 
three  warm  days  will  make  her  smile  out, 
goldenly,  as  if  indeed  the  winter  were  past 
and  gone,  and  the  time  of  singing  birds  had 
come.  So  in  reality,  in  bud  and  berry  or 
brown  receptacle,  we  have  always  two  joys 
with  us — the  promise  of  the  year  to  come,  and 
the  reminders  of  the  year  that  is  gone  and  a 
beautiful  and  convincing  argument  for  that 
unbrokenness  of  life  which  we  call  Immor- 
tality. 

The  sun  of  the  Shortest  Day  has  set.  The 
old  Earth,  faithful  and  true,  turns  summerward 
once  more.  The  Book  of  the  White-paper 
Garden  is  full,  and  there  must  be  new  pages 
for  new  days.  Thank  God  for  the  beautiful, 


29 2        A   WHITE-PAPER   GARDEN 

beneficent  planning  which  makes  room  for 
even  the  smallest  seed,  of  living  plant  or  of 
loving  thought,  and  keeps  safe  and  warm  the 
germ  which  aspires ! 

As  with  the  year,  so  with  man.  As  he 
grows  older  his  thoughts  reach  out  to  farther 
horizons,  and  the  love  which  once  burned  in 
a  single,  central  fire  now  broadens  into  a 
flame  that  would  gladly  envelop  the  whole 
world.  He  outgrows  much,  and  into  what 
remains  of  the  youth  behind  him  he  reads  far 
higher  meanings  as  he  advances  toward  the 
youth  that  lies  before  him.  He  loved  a  flower 
once — now  he  grows  into  conscious  relation 
with  the  immeasurable  truth,  which  is  taught 
nowhere  else  so  clearly  as  in  a  garden,  that 
all  he  has  had,  all  he  has  desired,  of  any 
good  is  his.  Not  to  touch,  perhaps,  or  to 
see,  but  to  remember  and  to  wait  for,  secure 
in  the  faith  that  the  Paradise  which  lies  just 
beyond  Calvary  needs  every  leaf  and  every 
blossom  that  ever  cheered  the  longing  soul 
on  its  pilgrimage  thither. 


THE  RIVERSIDE  PRESS  LIMITED.  EDINBURGH. 


A         f)f\n       """m   "H IHII  Hill  III)  |||| 


